


Voice For a Soul

by authoressjean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 03, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bobby Singer Deals With Idjits, Brotherly Love, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Use Their Words, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Dean's Deal, Gen, Good Person Ruby (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 03, Selectively Mute Sam Winchester, but you get the idea, maybe a curtain fic, well Sam doesn't talk per se
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean
Summary: Sam manages to break Dean's deal and save him from Hell...at a cost. With no voice, he doesn't know if he can hunt anymore, but he gave his voice up for his brother and he'd do it again. No matter what that means for him.Fortunately, he's not the only one willing to do whatever it takes to stay by his brother's side.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 190
Kudos: 351





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping that by posting this, I'll be henceforth encouraged to wrap it up. There's a handful of fics between me and posting the new Bonds of Brotherhood fic and this is one of them.

Sam Winchester was no coward. He had never turned from a fight, had never fled in fear. He’d always fought with every weapon he had, from his hands to his brain. When he faced Dean’s year-long death sentence of a deal, he attacked it as savagely as anything else that threatened his brother. As the day of damnation drew nearer, he scoured source after source, desperately seeking something, _anything_ , that would clear Dean’s name.

So when the day finally dawned, as gray and bleak as it deserved to be, Sam did the only thing he could.

He grabbed his brother and ran.

* * *

He’d almost been a lawyer. He remembered trailing a lawyer in a court case one day for class, remembered what the lawyer had told his class after the judge had ruled in the lawyer’s favor. “Sometimes it’s not about persuading the jury or making a better case,” he’d said. “Sometimes it’s just about scaring the crap out of the other side. Figure out what scares them, and you’re likely to get what you want.”

He wasn’t a lawyer now, as far from a lawyer as he could get, but he still remembered what he’d learned. He figured it applied here as he’d sought the exact details to Dean’s ironclad contract. This was just the highest stakes case Sam could have ever tried to take on, and it was one he couldn’t lose.

Nothing else had panned out. Spells, amulets, goofer dust, living forever. He’d searched every source, had tried everything he could. But in the end, it was going to be an all or nothing, at the last minute, sort of save. If it worked at all.

Dean was quiet that afternoon, far from the freaked-out mess that Sam felt like. His older brother was clearly on edge, trying to convince himself it was going to be okay. Trying to accept his fate, and Sam wasn’t ready to do that. Not now, not ever.

Three solid knocks rattled the motel door, and Dean tensed, but Sam hurried to open it. Ruby’s blonde hair was tied back behind her shoulders. “Brought you some food,” Ruby said by means of a greeting. “Sam said your favorite pie came from a diner in New Hampshire.”

Dean’s eyes lit up in appreciation. No one said the phrase “last meal” but they didn’t need to. He took the box reverently and headed for the table.

That meant he missed the wooden box that Ruby handed Sam, along with a paper bag. She gave him a slow nod and left, tossing a, “Call me when you need me,” over her shoulder.

The pie was savored between them both until not a single crumb was left. “I officially don’t hate Ruby as much,” Dean said. “She, uh, might be handy to call every now and then. Y’know. For later.”

_For when I’m dead_.

Sam looked at the clock, calculated the distance he needed, and took a deep breath. It was time. “I’ve got somewhere I want to show you,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” Dean said quietly. His smile was genuine, if but a little solemn. “Let me finish packing up.”

Duffels went into the car, the keys were turned in, and Dean settled into the driver’s seat. “Where to?” he asked.

“I’m driving,” Sam said, and he pulled his prize from the paper bag. He slid the syringe into Dean’s neck before his brother could say anything, and Dean reeled from him, stunned.

“Wha-?”

He was already fading out. Ruby had gotten the good stuff. “S’my,” he murmured, and his desperate and frightened eyes shut. Frightened for Sam, not of him, but it didn’t hurt any less.

Sam pulled him swiftly into the passenger seat, then hurried around to the driver’s side. He took a minute to straighten his trembling hands. He glanced at the clock; it was going to take him a few hours to get to where he wanted to go. Last stop: middle of nowhere.

Sam hit the gas and fled, already feeling as if the hounds of hell were on his tail.

* * *

At 11:30pm, Sam had Dean shackled to the lone bed in the cabin, nestled as comfortably in as many blankets as Sam could conjure up, and surrounded with solid bars of iron, two devil’s traps, and as much salt as he could plant.

At 11:45pm, he had all of his guns ready to go, had made sure Dean had food and water (holy water) on hand, and double checked the wards he had up.

At 11:53pm, Dean came to. “S’my?”

“You’re okay, Dean,” Sam said, looking over his weapon choices. He decided on the Colt first, Ruby’s knife at his side, and a shotgun full of salt as a secondary. He checked the clock again. 11:54pm.

“Sam? Sam! What the hell are you doing?”

Well, he sounded far more alert this time. Sam risked a glance back and found Dean looking outraged, pissed off, and afraid. Very afraid. “What are you doing?” he asked again, and more of the fear came out. “Sammy, don’t you dare do something stupid!”

11:55pm. “Not stupid,” Sam promised and hoped he wasn’t lying. He took a deep breath and reached for the wooden box on the table. It was time.

A growl from the front door immediately caught his attention. Dean froze behind him.

“Oh Dean,” a female voice crooned from outside the cabin, and Sam hefted his gun. “I’m just _dying_ to see you…”

Sam pursed his lips. It would take the hell hounds a bit to get through, but they’d eventually get through. God knew how long Lilith would be held off. Just hopefully long enough for him to enact his plan.

He set the box down on the ground and quickly unlatched it. “I invoke you in an hour of dire need,” he recited. “I beseech thee with an offering freely given to deliver me and mine hence from Lilith and her evils. Naamah, I call upon thee to help me in my time of need.”

11:57pm. More growls. The box did nothing. For the first time, true terror seized Sam, and he couldn’t breathe. Oh god. That was the last thing he’d had, the only thing he could think of, and now it was just him against hell hounds and Lilith-

“Samuel Winchester.”

Sam whipped around and found himself staring at a dark shape. It looked female, with a crown of bloodied steel and hair wound around its head. She was clothed in what appeared to be Greco style dress, but that too was also bloodied. It didn’t appear to be her blood.

Cool eyes watched him. “You called upon me,” the being said.

“Lilith is right outside,” Sam said. His heart was beating a million miles a minute, and adrenaline made his words almost a slur. “She wants my brother’s soul. I’m invoking you to take her on and make her release my brother’s soul. I give of myself freely as an offering to you.”

“ _No_!” Dean howled. “No! No deals! Sammy, don’t you _dare_!”

11:59pm. The demon, Naamah, regarded him as if she had all the time in the world. If he’d known she was going to take this much time to answer, he would’ve invoked her sooner, but he’d figured the only chance he would have would be when Lilith actually showed up. And of course she’d taken her sweet time, making them sweat out the last seconds.

Seconds. Dean had seconds. The hell hounds were through the first set of seals and had now taken to the door, which had a devil’s trap painted on it. “Sammy, you can’t protect him forever,” Lilith shouted. “I will get what I want – I always do!”

“Please,” Sam begged. “She only wants him to hurt me, she only gave him a year, I’m a free offering-“

Over him, Dean was begging just the opposite. “Ignore him, he’s not making another deal, just leave him alone, let her take me-“

The door swung open wide, and while he couldn’t see the hounds, Sam could see the claw marks as they came in. Behind them was a young woman, beautifully dressed, her eyes focused on Sam. So was her furious glare. “Once I have Dean’s soul, I’m going to kill you,” she seethed. “All Dean did was buy you another year of breathing, Sam Winchester, but trust me when I say that’s-“

Then her eyes drifted to the black figure, and she froze. Her mouth dropped open, and she actually looked _afraid_. Sam dared to let himself take a quick gulp of air.

“Naamah,” Lilith said, aiming for casual and falling flat. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Naamah’s eyes narrowed and flashed a brilliant, otherworldly green. “You locked me away,” she hissed. “Damned me to a box to take what I wouldn’t give you.”

“He was good,” Lilith said. “And I loved him, you didn’t really love him-“

“He was _mine_ ,” and wow did Naamah’s voice have some power. The cabin trembled and shook dust from the rafters. Naamah took a blackened step towards Lilith, and Lilith did the thing Sam had hoped she would do.

Lilith backed away.

_Figure out what scares them, and you’re likely to get what you want_. Sam had stopped trying to scare Lilith himself – he was a power contender in her eyes, but not enough – but a rival that Lilith had hated enough to seal away for all eternity, one who’d been rumored to be more beautiful and powerful than her? Sam had gambled, sent Ruby to retrieve the box after she’d figured out where it was, and it looked like it was paying off.

It was working. Sam looked at the clock and saw that somehow, it was 12:02am. His lungs felt frozen, the air he’d taken in earlier trapped in his lungs. It was past midnight, and he couldn’t still dare to breathe. He couldn’t even dare look at Dean, terrified that if he looked at Dean, he’d lose him.

“I have every right to him,” Lilith said, pointing at Dean. “He sold his soul to return his brother to life. The terms were one year before his soul came due, and that’s now. He accepted those terms. Just, just let me take what’s mine-“

“He’s not yours,” Sam said viciously. “He’s _my_ brother, not your plaything. You did it because you think I’m your rival and you want to take me out.”

They were the right words to say. Naamah’s eyes narrowed and she took another step towards Lilith. Lilith immediately stepped back. “I have every right to him!” Lilith shouted. Beside her somewhere, Sam could hear the hounds whimpering and retreating, responding to their master’s fear.

“You have no right,” Naamah growled, and her eyes blazed green again. She threw her hand out to Lilith, and green flames shot out, enveloping the other demon. Lilith screamed and howled, writhing in pain. The human host dissolved into ash, leaving a dark cloud that still somehow continued to scream in pain. Naamah closed her fist and shot it towards the wooden box on the floor.

The green flames disappeared. The dark cloud immediately flew into the box, and Naamah stepped on the lid. The cabin fell silent, and Sam knew he wasn’t imagining the smile of satisfaction on Naamah’s face.

Sam finally let out the breath he’d been holding and felt everything move dizzily around him. He glanced at Dean and found his brother kneeling on the bed, hands chained to either side of the frame, eyes wide and filled with fear. He didn’t look like a man grateful to have gotten off the gallows. If anything, he looked even more terrified than Sam had ever seen him before, and his eyes kept moving from Sam to the dark spirit beside him.

Right. Time to make his offering.

Sam turned to Naamah, who was still regarding the box. “Thank you,” Sam said earnestly, because he was. Infinitely grateful that she’d taken Lilith down and that Dean was free. Time for his side of the bargain. “I give of myself freely as an offering of gratitude.”

“Sam, no,” Dean croaked. “Sammy, _please_.”

Cool eyes turned to gaze at Dean for a moment, then back to Sam. “You freed me and delivered unto me my rival,” she said. There was a brief flicker of green in her eyes, but then it faded. Her form swayed, morphing from human form to a cloud of smoke and then back again. “And you still offer yourself?”

“Freely,” Sam whispered. “As a token of my gratitude for saving my brother’s soul.”

Dean cursed low and hard behind him, but Sam blocked it out. In the end, he’d known that if he died to give Dean his life again, it would be well worth it. He was the one who was the “Boy King,” he was the one who deserved to go to Hell. Not Dean.

Naamah regarded him for a long moment, as if searching him, judging him. Sam had nothing to hide. His joy at Dean’s freedom was starting to well in his eyes, and he blinked it away. Free. Dean was _free_.

After a minute, she slowly nodded. “I accept.”

“ _No!_ You want someone, take me,” Dean shouted. 12:08am. Not even ten minutes out from his last deal and he was already trying to make another one. Maybe Sam should’ve gagged him on top of chaining him. “Leave him alone!”

A wispy hand reached out towards Sam, and Sam took a sharp breath in. But the hand was open. Waiting. “I will take what you freely offered, for it pleases me. I do not deal in souls. What use have I for a soul? But your offering is a gift I shall not refuse.”

And suddenly, Sam knew exactly what she wanted, as if she’d told him loud and clear. He glanced at Dean, found his brother pulling desperately at his wrists, and he smiled. “Dean,” he said. Dean glanced at him, terrified. “Dean,” Sam said again, and then, “I’m not sorry. Jerk.”

Then, because it was his last chance to literally say it, he said, “I love you.”

Dean went ballistic, not understanding, wrenching at his restraints, trying desperately to get free. Sam turned to Naamah. “Samuel Winchester,” he said, or tried to. It came out like a whisper, a breath of air that disappeared into her waiting hand. She closed her fingers around it, and Sam choked on the words that had been there moments before.

Naamah bent to pick up the wooden box, then gazed at Sam. “You have done well, Samuel Winchester,” she said. “You and your brother may go.”

In an instant she was a dark cloud again, and she disappeared out through the broken door. Silence fell, and Sam swallowed hard. He nearly spoke, then thought better of it. Better to not test it. He’d given it freely, after all.

“Sam I swear to god if you don’t get me out of these chains-“

Sam turned towards the bed and took the first steps since he’d opened the box. His legs felt like syrup, and he stumbled on his way back to the bed.

“Sam! Are you all right? What did she do?”

He nodded his answer to the first question and ignored the second. The key to the chains sat underneath the plate of untouched food, and Dean cursed again when he realized how close his freedom had been. “You stupid son of a bitch, you drugged me and chained me up because you _knew_ that what you were doing was stupid, you could’ve gotten yourself killed, and what the _hell_ did she do to you?”

One hand free, the other hand free, and Dean suddenly surged off the bed, knocking the plate and the glass of water over in his haste to grab Sam. Sam stumbled back, his adrenaline fading into exhaustion, but he managed to grab onto Dean. Dean’s fingers dug into him, pushing and shoving everywhere he could, touching every single part of Sam and assessing him for damage.

Sam, on the other hand, was content to just put his hand over Dean’s chest, where his heart was beating a frantic rhythm. Alive. Dean was free and alive.

It made fresh tears well in his eyes, and he shut his eyes tight, letting them spill over his cheeks. He’d gambled and it had paid off. He’d found a bigger and badder demon to scare Lilith, and he’d won. It was _over_.

“Goddammit Sammy,” and Dean cupped his face, brushing the falling tears away. “Tell me what’s wrong!”

It was the only thing he couldn’t do. He clutched Dean’s frantic hands and held them still. _I’m okay_ , he mouthed, over and over until Dean figured out what he was trying to say.

“What did she do?” Dean asked again. “What did she friggin’ take?”

Sam let out a shaky sigh. He could try to talk, see if she’d really taken his voice. Since it was an offering, however, there was a chance that the demon hadn’t taken it, but was considering his voice hers all the same.

A voice was one thing. Writing, however, wasn’t technically speaking. He dug around until he found a receipt in one of his jacket’s pockets, then found a pen. Dean crowded in and read over his shoulder.

**I can’t talk.**

“Yes you can,” Dean said immediately. “Say something.”

Sam just shook his head and pointed to the receipt. “You can’t talk,” Dean read, “Yeah, I see that-“

Then he stopped, and Sam waited for the pieces to fall into place. “You can’t talk,” Dean breathed. He stared at Sam, horrified. “She took your voice?”

Not taken, given, but just as Sam went to write on the receipt again, Sam’s cell phone rang. Dean grabbed it and answered. “Bobby, it’s me-“

The resulting explosion of sound made Sam smile. Not the person Bobby had expected to talk to after midnight. “No, I’m all right,” Dean said. “Bobby, it’s-“

He paused for a minute, and clearly Bobby was saying something very honest and not gruff, because Dean’s eyes took on a shimmer of emotion before he blinked it away. “Yeah, it’s good to still be here,” he said roughly. Then he shook himself. “But that’s because Sam made a damn deal of some kind.”

The phone exploded again, this time with anger, and Sam sighed. “The demon he called up – yes, he called a damn demon – she took his voice. He can’t talk.”

Dean listened for a moment more, then nodded. “We’re on our way. We’re not far, probably a few hours out. Trust me, I’m not sleeping anytime soon. Not after I got a nice five-hour nap thanks to whatever the hell Sam gave me to knock me out which, by the way, Sam, we are _so_ talking about.”

One of them would be talking about it. Sam wouldn’t be involved – at least, not the way Dean wanted him to be.

Dean was _alive_.

Fuming, concerned, ready to rip Sam a new one, yet still hovering all at the same time, and Sam wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. Chapter 2

They made it to Bobby’s by around five in the morning, better time than Sam had expected. Dean, as promised, hadn’t slept, but had instead tried to goad Sam into talking. Sam hadn’t replied, and when he’d tried to write something down, Dean had waved him off.

The first thing Bobby did when he saw them was hug Dean. Dean held back tightly, and Sam just enjoyed the moment for what it was. Dean, alive and well, and most definitely not in Hell.

The second thing Bobby did was smack Sam upside his head. “You _idiot,_ ” he growled, and then he tugged Sam in for a desperate hug, too. Sam wrapped his arms around the man and closed his eyes. It was a good moment.

Dean ruined it, predictably, a moment later. “Can we get back to actually figuring out how to help Sam and break his deal?”

“Oh, so now you’re interested in breakin’ deals,” Bobby drawled. It felt nice that someone else could say it, and Sam merely raised his eyebrows at Dean to add his opinion. _Not so much fun on your end, huh?_

“Spare me, Sam,” Dean snapped. “She took your friggin’ _voice_. I’m a little concerned.”

“Who?” Bobby asked. He was already moving towards his bookshelf. “You said a demon who…boxed Lilith up?”

“The box the demon came out of,” Dean said. “Her name starts with an ‘N’, uh, Namia? No, that’s not it. Sam, what’s her name?”

Where was the nearest piece of paper? Bobby always had spare paper lying around. Dean suddenly seemed to realize that Sam wasn’t going to speak. “Something that starts with an ‘N’,” Dean said again, this time with anger. “She scared Lilith, that’s for sure, and then she took Sam’s voice.”

“Naamah?” Bobby asked, surprised. Sam nodded, still searching for the paper. “You called upon Naamah? And what do you mean, a box?”

Dean held up his hands to estimate the size. “Wooden box, this big, lots of markings all over it. Looked old. Sam cracked it open, made some sort of a deal,” sent Sam a withering glare, “and she popped up. The next thing I know, Lilith’s engulfed in green fire and being stuffed in the box instead. The other demon took the box.”

“Naamah was Lilith’s supposed rival,” Bobby said. “Used to run in the same circle. There was a falling out and while Lilith continues through the history books, Naamah just disappeared.”

Dean suddenly straightened, and Sam could’ve sworn there was a lightbulb above his brother’s head. “That’s what Ruby brought you,” he said. “She brought me pie and brought you a demon. I swear to god, I get my hands on her…”

With a weary shake of his head, Sam finally found a piece of paper and a pencil. He quickly wrote down, **I asked her for Naamah. Ruby knew where she was.**

“Naamah was known for her sympathy,” Bobby said, glancing at Dean’s reddening face. It was sweet that he was trying to soften the blow, but the storm building on Dean’s face wasn’t going to be quelled that way.

Sure enough, Dean exploded. “Oh, so I’m supposed to be grateful that she doesn’t deal in souls, that she only wanted his _voice_? He can’t talk because she took his voice, Bobby!”

Sam wrote again, and tapped the paper with a loud rapping sound until Dean turned to read his note. **Not taken. Given.**

Dean stared at him. “An offering?” Bobby asked quietly. Sam nodded. “Well, at least she didn’t take your ability to communicate.”

That seemed to be the last straw for Dean. He stormed past Sam and out the front door, slamming it behind him. Sam sighed and suddenly felt the last several hours slam into him like a freight train. The adrenaline high had long left him, but it wasn’t until Dean left that he realized just how tired he was.

“I’ll talk to him,” Bobby told him. He pursed his lips. “I can’t say I’m pleased by what you did, but he’s alive and here, and you’re here and not hurt. And that’s more than I was honestly expectin’ to have today. I’ll damn well take it. We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

Sam shook his head, because no, he’d given his voice, he wasn’t just going to take it back and piss off the demon who’d saved Dean. Bobby, however, had his hands up. “I ain’t takin’ on Naamah. I just meant I’ve got a few books on sign language,” he said. “Think you might need them.”

He stared at Bobby until his eyes burned. Then he gathered the man in his arms and held on tight. Dad was dead and gone, but Bobby had somehow filled the emptiness. He didn’t honestly know where he’d be without the man.

Bobby patted him on the back, then steered him towards the stairs. “Go, get some sleep. I’ve got Dean.”

Sam needed no further encouragement. He headed up the stairs and crashed into one of the guest beds.

* * *

Dean, ironically, refused to talk to him.

He was there in the kitchen when Sam came down the next morning, but besides glaring at Sam, he refused to say a word to him. Sam didn’t much care. He spent the time just enjoying Dean breathing and not being six feet under. He’d thought he’d be tending to a dead body at this point, and Dean was still here. He understood how Dean had felt after he’d brought Sam back with his crossroads deal. That easy going, “Sure, Sam,” while Sam had raged at him for selling his soul.

Bobby did indeed have three books on American Sign Language, including one that was mostly curse words. Sam snorted and set it aside. Dean would like that one.

But any conversation with Dean through writing was discarded, literally: Dean just balled up the papers Sam gave him and threw them in the trash. Finally, Sam just grabbed the sign language book and handed one to Dean. He mimed reading it, then pointed to Dean.

Dean shoved the book at him, knocking Sam back a step, and headed for the door again. Sam sighed and started after him. The sound of the Impala starting up made him freeze for a moment, and then he was barreling out the door as fast as he could.

Not fast enough. The Impala and his brother tore out of the yard and back onto the road. Sam stared, wanting to scream, wanting to call his brother to come back, but of course he couldn’t. For the first time since he’d given his voice away, he missed it.

Call. He dug in his pocket for his phone and dialed Dean. It went straight to voicemail, and Sam pursed his lips, already planning on chewing his brother out for leaving him behind.

Then he realized he couldn’t. He hung up and stared at his phone instead. He couldn’t call Dean. Dean wouldn’t hear him.

Bobby came out a moment later. “Where’s your brother?” he asked.

Sam just pointed at the road. “He _left_?” Bobby asked incredulously. Sam didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He would’ve laughed except what was the point?

He walked back into the house instead and opened the book he’d still been clutching in one hand. Might as well learn so he could curse Dean out when his brother came back.

Dean didn’t come back by nightfall. Or the next morning. Or the next afternoon.

Once Sam realized that only his things were at Bobby’s, and not Dean’s, it suddenly seemed possible that Dean just wasn’t going to come back. It hit with a sudden fear that felt like a fist plowing into his abdomen, robbing him of breath, and Sam felt dizzy and lost. He’d given his voice to save Dean’s life, and his brother was just going to leave him behind? Was Dean that angry at him?

Apparently he was.

He texted Dean constantly, but never received a response. By the next morning he gave up and just tossed his phone into a corner of Bobby’s kitchen. “Somethin’ wrong with your phone?” Bobby asked.

Sam scrawled a quick, **What’s the point of it?** and turned to leave. Bobby rested a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and Sam finally looked at him. Bobby’s face seemed more full of lines than before, but there was definitely a fire in his eyes, one that looked ready to light into something, or someone. “I’ll call him,” Bobby told him. Sam just nodded and finally left the room.

He didn’t hear the ensuing phone conversation. He spent the day instead trying out new signs, flexing his fingers in new and sometimes odd ways. The alphabet was easy to a point, but it was the speed that he was missing. The internet provided some help with how certain signs were meant to look (the book was ridiculous with its dashed lines and arrows that tried to indicate direction and movement, some of them made no sense at all), but it was hard, trying to get his fingers up to speed. He’d need to, in order to communicate. Though maybe a pad of paper and a pencil would be easier.

The silence was what was getting to him the most, though. He’d never talked just to fill the quiet, and his mind traitorously took him back to when the Trickster had left him without a brother for nearly six months. There’d been a lot of silence then. Dean had filled up a lot of that silence when he’d come back and learned from Sam what the Trickster had done. Singing off-key, gargling, telling random stories, humming. His brother was loud and had filled the empty spaces, both in the air and inside of Sam.

But Dean was gone, not responding, and the silence was starting to bear down again. There was a chance that Dean wasn’t even coming back, and that Sam would have to find other ways to fill the silence in his life. Like music in his own car, listening to other people in a diner while he sat alone—

No, he wasn’t going there yet. He couldn’t. He pushed the panic down and took a few deep breaths before he felt like he had some semblance of control back. Sam finally went to bed hoping he’d hear the Impala rumble in, hear something break the silence. He never did.

The third morning, he stumbled down the stairs and found Dean at the table. Sam blinked. Dean shifted uncomfortably. Bobby was nowhere to be seen.

Sam slowly moved forward. Dean bit his bottom lip, then huffed a bitter laugh. “I can’t believe I’m missing you chewing me out,” he said. “I keep expecting you to yell at me, or have some emo girl moment, and…you can’t,” and he seemed to choke on the last words. “Because of me. You gave your voice, your ability to talk, the thing you consider most valuable, and you gave it away because of me.”

Sam shook his head and grabbed a piece of paper. **Not the most valuable thing.**

At least Dean read it this time, scanning it quickly and shaking his head. “You’ve always considered words more powerful than brute strength,” Dean countered. “Not being able to talk, that’s a big deal. You might not talk just to hear yourself talk, but being able to talk is a huge part of who you are. And it’s gone now.”

Sam shook his head and pointed at the line he’d written again. Then he set it down and dared to place his hand above Dean’s heart. The beating heart that was feeding oxygen to his cells and giving him breath and life.

His voice wasn’t the most valuable thing in the world. Not by a long shot.

It took Dean a moment to figure it out, but when he did, his face crumpled. He leaned back, away from Sam’s hand, but raised his right hand in a fist. When Sam frowned, confused, he put the fist on his chest and moved it around in a clockwise circle. _I’m sorry._

Sam caught sight of the books on the table seconds before he lunged for his brother, wrapping him in a tight embrace. Hands came up to clutch at him, holding on just as hard. Sam felt his eyes fill with tears because he had a brother, one who was still pissed off at him for making a deal, who was willing to learn sign language after he’d gotten in at whatever time he’d come back. He had a big brother. He wasn’t alone.

They’d make this work. Like they always did.

* * *

The first few weeks were…interesting.

Sam used the book and pencil a lot. Bobby was right: it was a damn good thing that Naamah hadn’t taken his ability to communicate, only his voice. Otherwise, life would’ve been _very_ difficult.

Dean was faster at the signs than he was, which was both gratifying and also highly annoying. Once Dean figured that out, he was suddenly far more on board with signing, and he took to smirking at Sam whenever he flew through the motions. It was irritating, it was such a stupid big brother thing to do, and Sam ate it up.

Still, they relied heavily on paper and pencil. Bobby brought him a notebook during their second week there, a beautiful bound thing that had Sam drooling at the sight of it, but he refused to hand it over right away. “This ain’t for you to just jot down quick conversations,” he said. “Your head needs somewhere to go with all those thoughts of yours, and since you can’t speak ‘em anymore, well, figured you might want somewhere to put ‘em.”

Sam was getting unbearably used to tears in his eyes. Bobby handed it over with bright eyes of his own and a quick smile, then hurried off.

Dean bought him pens with a soft grip when he noticed Sam shaking his hand out in pain, and offered to get him a wrist brace, too. “I mean, I always figured I’d get you a wrist brace for all the alone time you have, but if it’s because of writing-“

Voice or not, Sam still had unerring aim, and Dean wore a small ink smudge on his forehead for a few days. Bobby took to calling it the “blessing of Sam” mark, enough that Dean threatened him with a “blessing of Dean” mark.

Three weeks after they’d stumbled into Bobby’s house, they took their leave. “You boys be careful,” Bobby said. “And for god’s sakes, don’t be strangers. Call me or text me. Or, y’know. Use this.”

He handed Sam a box that was wrapped in honest to god wrapping paper, though the Santa Claus on the green background was a little out of season. “Don’t open it until you stop for the night,” he warned. “Trust me.”

The hardest part about not talking was honestly the curiosity. Sam had never realized how often he asked questions until he _couldn’t_. And with his hands full, he couldn’t sign or write them down, either.

Bobby looked pleased with himself at Sam’s frustration. Dean just grinned. Sam glared. _Assholes_ , he mouthed carefully.

“And proud of it,” Dean said cheerfully. “Let’s go, Whiskers.”

_Whiskers_? Sam asked once they were in the car.

“Yeah, Whiskers. Y’know, like a cat. Curiosity and the cat and all that.”

_Your brain is a scary place_.

“You’re a scary place.”

After that brilliant response, Sam left his brother alone and instead let his fingers roam over the paper. It wasn’t a particularly big box, but big enough to be something he could fit in his hands. It was a little heavy, too.

“ _No_ , Sam. You can wait.”

He didn’t need his hands to respond to that: his tongue sticking out was just fine. Dean just snickered and kept them driving.

Finally, after they’d gotten a room for the night, Sam tore into the package. It didn’t make sense at first, why Bobby would give him what looked like a webcam. He frowned and tugged it out, and there indeed was the camera with a lot of different cords. There was also a piece of paper with directions, written in Bobby’s concise handwriting.

Dean didn’t understand any more than he did, but between the two of them they got it running. Sam directed it to the right program and waited. The screen went dark, and then suddenly Bobby filled the computer screen, grinning at them both. “Told you to wait for tonight for a reason,” he said. “Kinda hard to set this up on the road.”

“I don’t know, Bobby, a webcam just feels a little naughty,” Dean said and Sam didn’t even look, just reached his hand back and smacked. It was such a Dean thing to say, though, that Sam couldn’t help but grin. It would’ve been silence without him there, even if Sam had still had a voice.

Bobby rolled his eyes. “I ain’t touchin’ that. Look, texting is fine, but this is far better for communicating, ‘specially for Sam now. I can see signs better than I can hear ‘em.”

Another gift for Sam, in order to stay in touch. His grin softened into a smile that wasn’t lacking in warmth. _Thank you,_ he signed. Then he gave Bobby the sign he’d created, just for his name.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “I caught the first part; what’s the rest of it?”

Sam signed the whole name out, then did the name again. Bobby scowled then, even while Dean laughed. Nicknames in ASL were fun, what could he say? And while he could’ve picked the letter B with the sign for book, well, making the sign for a hat was far funnier.

“You’re hilarious, the both of you,” Bobby groused, but he couldn’t seem to tamp down on his smile all the same. “All right, where are you two headin’?”

They chatted for a little while longer, giving Sam a chance to practice his signs (and Dean to do them three times faster). When the video ended, exhaustion sort of hit all at once, and Sam slumped back in his seat.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

_Long day,_ Sam told him. Dean snorted.

“Yeah, it was. My bed’s calling, c’mon.”

If they were a little more careful putting down salt and setting up wards, well, it was their first time anywhere that wasn’t Bobby’s, and who knew what Hell had waiting for them, now that Lilith was dead? There were bound to be other demons that had followed her, others that were ready to take Sam’s head, or try to drag Dean down. Sam wasn’t taking a chance, and Dean seemed to feel the same way.

Despite being tired, it took a long time for Sam to fall asleep, and only when he got a hand on the gun beneath his pillow did he finally doze off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that sentences in full italics are signed. The signs are accurate to the best of my knowledge.

It took a week of wandering around before Sam realized that Dean wasn’t going to pick a hunt. He poked at Dean in the shoulder when they sat down at a diner for lunch, even though he knew Dean was watching for any hint of sign language. If Sam had thought Dean was hyper aware of Sam’s movements before, it was nothing compared to now.

That didn’t mean that Dean couldn’t ignore him when he wanted to.

“What?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. “I got it, I’ll make sure they do the salad right this time.”

_Not that,_ Sam told him. Though that was equally important. _We need to talk._

“We are talking. Well, one of us is technically talking.”

All right, so Dean was still a little bitter about the whole deal thing. More guilty than anything, honestly, and Sam just reached out and flicked a finger at Dean’s forehead, and Dean glared at him but subsided. “Talk about what?”

_The hunt. We need to find a hunt._

Dean immediately pulled the menu up between them. Sam pursed his lips and caught the edge of the menu, dragging it down. Dean glared. He glared back. _Dean._

“No,” Dean said, then swung a megawatt smile at the waitress as she came over. “What’s the special for today?”

Fine. If he wanted to do that, then Sam would just take matters into his own hands. Literally. He grabbed his pad of paper and pencil and began to write. When he finished, Dean was just giving the last of the order. “…salad, but put the dressing on the side, would you?”

“You got it,” she said. “Anything else?”

Sam just handed her the piece of paper. _Can I have a lemonade please? Also, have you heard anything weird going on lately?_

She gave a quick laugh. “I can do lemonade for sure. As for weird, this is probably less weird, more sad, but we’ve had a rash of car crashes out on the highway. People keep swearing they see something out there. There’s been six deaths in the last two months.”

He could all but feel Dean’s glare burning a hole through the side of his head. Sam wrote again and turned the pad towards her. _I’m so sorry. Are they doing anything about the road?_

“They’re supposed to be, that’s the thing. They finally decided to close off the road and all these crashes are just proving that it needs to be shut down.” She shook her head. “Let me stop yapping your ear off and I’ll go get your drinks.”

She headed off, and Sam finally turned to Dean. His brother looked ready to blow a gasket or three. “ _No_ , Sam,” he said, voice dangerously low. “We’re not taking on a hunt.”

_This is easy,_ Sam insisted. _Pissed-off spirit with unfinished business._ The road closing had clearly been the impetus for the recent attacks. There was nothing usually easier than a spirit case, and this one had dropped right into their laps.

Okay, Sam had gone looking for it, but still. Right there.

And Dean loved to hunt. Dean _lived_ to hunt. Sam would’ve thought his brother would be chomping at the bit in order to hunt again but there he was, glaring at Sam like he’d been personally offended. _Dean,_ he signed, and he tried to make his face look as coaxing as possible. _You know you want to look into it. We could get it done fast._

Dean suddenly pushed himself up off the table and stormed out. Stunned, Sam watched him go, no voice to call him back. For a minute, Sam wondered if Dean would take off in the car without him again, but he heard no growling noises. He realized his heartbeat felt like a jackhammer in his throat, and he swallowed hard.

“Everything okay?”

The waitress was back with his drinks. He fumbled with the pad of paper to write a response. _Something’s come up, can we get it to go?_

Seven minutes later and Sam had a bag filled with white containers and two drinks in a drink carrier. He hurried out of the diner to where the car still sat, black glinting in the sun. Dean leaned against the driver’s side, staring at the ground. He glanced up at Sam coming out and something must have been across Sam’s face, because Dean suddenly looked guilty. With his hands full, Sam couldn’t exactly talk to him, so he headed for his side of the car instead. It wasn’t like Dean would tell him, anyway: he’d get some smart-ass remark, most likely, or the defensive posturing that Dean had spent years honing to an art form.

He got in and put the food between them on the seat, the cup holder on the floor. Dean finally got in, half-turned towards Sam, but Sam found he didn’t want to sign anything. Couldn’t. The best he could do to match his thoughts would be to wring his hands and form random words anyway, because he didn’t understand.

He reached for his drink to just have something to do, but a hand caught his wrist before he could pick anything up. Dean stared at him, as if trying to pull himself together, then surprised Sam again by speaking. “I can’t hunt like this.”

Like this? Like—

The penny dropped and Sam felt hurt blossom through him. _I can hunt,_ he signed, and Dean shook his head.

“That’s not the problem here. Of course you can hunt. You’re one of the best damn hunters I know, Sam, so put those puppy-dog eyes away. I’m not trying to insult you here, all right?”

Sam just waited, hands open, yearning to open his mouth and give Dean the words he wouldn’t sign. _But why_ and _Nothing’s changed_ and _Don’t leave me_ were all flying through his head at a million miles an hour.

Dean snorted a bitter laugh. “I’ve never been able to stand the silence. Even fighting with you was better than sitting alone by myself.”

Sam forced himself to glare because if he didn’t, his stomach would sink further to his feet. _I’m not apologizing. I saved you. I don’t regret it._

“Of course you don’t,” Dean muttered before he pinned Sam with a serious look. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make here, though don’t ask me to ever be okay with you giving your voice up for me. Because I won’t be. Right now, right here, this is about the hunt.”

_And?_

“What do we do when we hunt, Sam? We talk to witnesses, we go back and forth with ideas, and if we need to save each other’s life, _we shout_. Or yell. Or _something_ with a lot of voice.”

Oh. Sam hadn’t really considered that aspect. “Yeah, oh,” Dean said, correctly reading the look on his face. “And if I can shout for you but you can’t shout for me, one of these days, one of us is going to get hurt.” Or killed, which Dean was gracious enough to not say out loud.

Dean sighed and turned back to the steering wheel. “A hunt is just too dangerous, Sam. We can’t.”

Sam stared at his brother for a long moment, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle, because this wasn’t a new thought. Dean had seriously given this some thought. For days, Sam suddenly realized, thinking back to Dean neatly sidestepping the mention of a hunt in North Carolina, another haunting in Milwaukee. Dean had been chewing on this for a while.

He lifted his hands to sign and Dean’s eyes immediately went to follow. _What were you thinking then? For us to do?_

Dean swallowed. He took a deep breath, then another, and Sam found he himself couldn’t breathe. When Dean finally spoke, it was with a quiet tone, but with a great deal of surety. “It shouldn’t take me nearly dying, or you giving up your voice, for us to hang it up. You died. I almost went to Hell. Lilith’s taken care of, and someone else can deal with things for a bit. We’ll get you back to school, find someone willing to take me on, we’ll go from there.”

Sam found his mouth dropping open. Give it up? Give hunting up completely? _That_ was what Dean had decided? For a moment, his brain selfishly followed the trail of thought and imagined them in a place all their own, a garage for the Impala, Sam taking night classes and working somewhere during the day while Dean worked somewhere that admired him for his talents. A shop that specialized in antique cars, maybe, or a school looking for a master craftsman. Maybe helping the next generation of hunters. Dean, safe, happy, maybe with a girl on his arm like the woman they’d left behind last year. Lisa, Sam thought her name was. It was a beautiful thought.

He savored it, then set it aside. _I like that,_ Sam told him. _I want that, I do. You and me, safe, happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted._

Dean slowly nodded. “Yeah. It finally hit me what you told me, that night I picked you up from Stanford. You said ‘safe’ over ‘normal’ and I thought you still just wanted the white picket fence. But that was never what it was about for you.”

Sam shook his head. Just safe. That was all he’d ever wanted, really. To not worry about Dean or Dad.

Dad was gone now, and Dean had just barely gotten out of a deal with Hell. Safe was a relative term. _We’re hunters,_ Sam continued. _We can have that later. Right now, we have people to help. You and me, together. I want to do this with you._

“I wasn’t going to leave you,” Dean said, that same guilty look from earlier returning to his face, and Sam felt his own face grow hot. Apparently Dean had read his frantic dash out the door a little too well. “I’m not going to do that again. I shouldn’t have taken off before, back at Bobby’s, I just…”

Sam got it. He did. He gave the sign he’d been waiting to give for a while, and Dean frowned. “What the hell is that?”

Carefully Sam spelled it out with letters. _J-E-R-K._ Then he repeated the sign, both hands making a V between the pointer and middle fingers, then one hand coming up beneath the other hand until the two Vs smacked together.

Dean stared for a long moment, then slowly began to grin. He held up his left hand and made a B, then tapped the side of his pointer finger against his chin before shoving it away from his face. _Bitch._

Sam felt his grin nearly swallow his whole face. They could adapt. They could make it work. Just like they had with everything else, they could take what had been handed to them and keep rolling.

If Sam had any chance of making this work, it was with his big brother.

Dean dug through the containers before handing Sam his salad. “Eat up; we’ve got some research to do before we can go dig up a grave. I hope it’s a grave and not a cremation.” He paused before starting the Impala. “Is it weird to be looking forward to digging up a grave?”

Sam didn’t deign to give him an answer, just plucked a crouton out and pegged it at the side of Dean’s head. Dean chuckled and pulled them out of the parking lot.

* * *

The spirit was easy to identify: a pedestrian struck down on the side of the road fifty years ago. Buried, not cremated, and they managed to salt him without any mess on their end. Even when he’d come for Dean, Sam had snapped his fingers, giving Dean enough time to drop before Sam had fired above him. Dean hadn’t been hurt, the spirit had dissipated, and when the flames had gone up, Sam had just grinned at his brother. Safe and sound and dealt with.

Even if Dean grumbled about dirt on his shirt all the way back to the car. He still did it with a small smile on his face, and he glanced at Sam more than once with hope in his eyes. Hope that yeah, this was doable, even if Sam couldn’t talk.

It would work. It had to.

* * *

The next case was another spirit that was seeking out the descendants of its rival and slowly bringing them to a gruesome end. This time, it was Sam who needed help with no way to call for it as the spirit slowly choked the air out of him. He banged his fist on the wall hard, three sharp raps, his vision fading to black.

“Hey!”

He barely heard the sound of the shotgun but he heard the spirit’s wail, echoing through his head. His first breath was deep and desperate, and he greedily gulped in as much air as he could.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Dean said again, far more gently this time. “Don’t hyperventilate on me. You good? Sam?”

Sam managed a thumbs up, bent over, hands on his knees in order to breathe. “Super,” Dean said, sounding anything but enthused. “C’mon, I think I know where he is. You know that wall we passed in the foyer?”

_Brick wall?_ Sam asked with one hand.

Dean nodded. “Remember how you mentioned that it didn’t match the house? You were right.”

Oh. _Oh_. Sam made a face that was easily translated. “Yeah,” Dean said, grimacing. “I got the pick axe outside. You swing, I’ll shoot.”

One mummified corpse in the wall later and the entire house fell still and silent. Dean clapped him on the back, making Sam cough. “Nice necklace,” Dean said.

Sam flipped him off, making Dean snicker. “I don’t think that’s official ASL, dude.”

_Universal,_ Sam signed. _It means you’re an asshole._

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get something on those bruises.”

* * *

When the next case they found looked like a wendigo, Dean hesitated. _We can do this,_ Sam insisted. _We can get back-up if you want. Bobby, Rufus, Ellen, Jo._

Dean sat at the little motel table, staring at the table top. Sam waited, as patiently as he could. He’d learned to be patient, over the past two months or so. He’d always been so eager to jump in, to make his voice heard in the din that was John Winchester giving orders or Dean Winchester overriding him. He’d learned to be loud.

Now, though. It was just him and Dean, and he didn’t have to speak first, think later. He’d learned to sit and wait, knowing that Dean wouldn’t cut him off, that he could give his signs and Dean would let him finish. Dean had learned patience, too, sitting and thinking it over before speaking.

He didn’t have to wait long. “No,” Dean said after a moment. “We’ve gotta learn to do this ourselves. That means you and me, nobody else. If we need extra muscle on something, sure, I’ll call. But we don’t need anyone to hold our hand. We know how to hunt. We can do this.”

It was the most confident that Sam had heard, and he gave an emphatic nod. _Together_ , he signed, bringing both fists together before moving them in a single circle. They could do it together.

Dean nodded. “Together.”

Together didn’t mean being stupid, though. They made a webcam call to Bobby once they hit Colorado to let him know where they were and what they were doing, and if they didn’t call him to tell him everything was okay in 24 hours, that he should assume the worst and come their way. “Just keep me posted,” Bobby finally said. “You boys be careful, all right?”

_We will,_ Sam told him. _Being quiet can only help us, right?_

Bobby didn’t look completely on board. Neither did Dean. But both of them agreed to wait for the check-in, and Sam would take it.

It was a wendigo. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could go wrong indeed...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who said that hunting a wendigo when you can't talk or communicate is a bad idea...
> 
> You were right.

In the dark some who knew how many hours later, Sam wasn’t feeling as optimistic.

Everything had been fine until it hadn’t been. The rustling in the trees had been the only warning, and before Sam could even so much as draw his weapon, they’d been trapped. Dean had shouted something, and then Sam had been jerked backwards. The flight through the forest had been dizzying, claws digging in so hard that Sam couldn’t find his breath. Something had struck him hard and he hadn’t remembered anything else until he’d woken here, in the dark cave.

He scanned the dark and tugged at his restraints. It felt like vines, something sharp digging into his skin, and he winced as he felt whatever it was dig in further. His toes barely brushed the floor, putting even more weight on his wrists. His head ached and he wasn’t sure if his vision was swimming or not; it was too dark to really see anything. That meant he couldn’t tell if Dean had been taken or not.

The urge to call out for Dean burned through him all the way to his lips, enough that he actually opened his mouth to speak for the first time in months. _Dean Dean Dean_ was all he wanted, and Sam drew in breath.

Then stopped. His life wasn’t worth Dean’s, if his voice had truly been a gift and not just taken. He couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_.

Plan B: getting out to find Dean. The thorns on the vine stung, settling in even deeper, and he could feel blood trailing down his skin in a nauseating pattern. He pulled as hard as he could, pain exploding in his hands and arms, and managed to get a little more of a foothold on the ground.

Something shifted above him on his last pull, and he barely managed to duck his head in time to avoid the soft skittering of whatever it was as it landed on his head. Dirt, from the smell of it, and a deep crunching sound that made Sam think of a rockfall. He froze and waited.

The grinding sound stopped, as did the dirt that fell. That left him with very few options now, though. If the vines were naturally forming from a plant above, he could kill himself trying to get free. With his feet more solidly on the ground, it took the weight out of his shoulders, though there was still pressure there. He wasn’t going to be able to move his arms for weeks.

He shut his eyes tight, tears burning in them for the first time in a long time. No voice, no way of knowing where Dean was, no way of communicating with his brother. This had been a bad idea from the start. Him and his stupid pride, determined to have his pie and eat it, too. He should’ve taken Dean and run for the hills the minute Dean’s soul had been freed.

He shifted his foot and heard a metallic resonance, a clanging that made him still. When nothing happened, he gingerly did it again. Something long, hollow, and definitely made of metal, though probably rusted to hell and back. It clanged loudly in the dark.

Sam’s mind raced. Maybe he did have a way to communicate, after all. He settled his weight on his left foot, then brought his right foot out and hit hard, steel toe matching metal. _Bang bang bang_ followed by _bang, bang, bang_ , then _bang bang bang_ again.

Dean would know. Dean would find him. He had to believe his big brother was safe, free, and out there looking for him.

He repeated the SOS a few more times, taking a pause to see if he could hear a voice calling. His arms began to burn again, and he desperately shifted to try and give them relief. He had no idea how long he’d been down there, alone in the dark, bruised and bleeding and stuck. He swallowed past the sinking feeling of hopelessness and started banging again.

On the next set of bangs, there was an echoed response. “ _Sam?!_ ”

Sam paused for a second before frantically digging in his mind for the appropriate Morse code. _Y-E-S_.

A minute later of more dark eternity, and suddenly there was a light from the far-right corner. Sam winced at the sudden light, but behind the light was a dirty, familiar face full of so much terror and relief that Sam felt himself sag in the vines. More blood flowed.

Dean cursed, voice trembling. “Jesus Sammy, I’ve been looking for you for _hours_. How badly are you hurt? What happened?”

All questions that Sam could answer if he had his hands free. He tipped his head up towards his hands and got the first glimpse of his arms in the light of Dean’s flashlight. The blood stains were nearly black, fresh red blood flowing. His hands looked white, twisted up in a dark green vine.

“ _Shit_ ,” Dean muttered. “Hold on, I should be able to pull it—”

Sam frantically shook his head. Dean glanced up with the flashlight and blanched. “Okay, yeah, bad idea. Hold on.” He reached down for his boots and pulled out the back-up knife. Short and stubby, but it would do the trick in a pinch, and this was definitely a pinch. Dean reached up on his tip-toes and started sawing.

It was the glowing eyes that Sam saw first. His mouth opened to shout a warning, then instinct kicked in, literally. He swung his legs out, sending Dean flying off to one side. Dean shouted as he hit the ground even while the wendigo roared its displeasure. Sam glanced above him as Dean fumbled to get to his feet. He couldn’t see as well now, with the light mostly gone, but enough to see the pile of rocks stacked against each other just so around the vine. If he pulled, he’d bring the top of the cave there with him.

Maybe take the wendigo down, too. Sam began kicking the metal object he’d found with all his might, drawing the wendigo’s attention to him. Slowly the wendigo started stalking him, moving carefully, claws clicking together in the dark. Sam tensed, waiting. Closer, closer…

The wendigo suddenly shifted, in Sam’s face a moment later, and Sam shoved himself off the ground, pulling and putting his entire weight on the vines above. “ _No_!” Dean shouted, even as the vines gave. The rocks came down a moment later.

One of them hit Sam in the shoulder so hard that he got flung off towards Dean, landing in a heap on the floor. The wendigo let out a wail as it got caught in the rockslide, and it tumbled to the floor, covered in the avalanche. The sound of crumbling rocks filled Sam’s ears, leaving them ringing.

When the dust and debris cleared, Sam coughed and coughed. A hand caught his arm and helped haul him upright, and Sam gasped in pain when Dean reached for the vines still wrapped tight around his wrists. “Easy,” Dean murmured. “I got you.”

With the release of the vines came the rush of blood, and his torn wrists began bleeding again. Dean fumbled with the knife still in his hands and cut strips of his own shirt loose. Each one covered Sam’s wrists well, helping staunch the flow. _Thanks,_ Sam signed.

Dean glared at him. “I’m not thanking you. You could’ve been killed, you idiot. What the hell—”

The rocks shifted. They both froze, then Dean hauled the flare gun out from the back of his jeans. One shot landed through the wendigo’s head, and it went up in flames, screaming the whole way.

The stench of rotting flesh soon hit him, and Sam gagged. “Yeah, me too,” Dean said, coughing hard and retching a little. Together they stumbled out of the cavernous room.

It turned out to be a series of caves, and Dean led the way, carefully helping Sam over holes in the rocks, stalagmites that waited to trip him up. By the time they got outside, the sun was setting, but the fresh air was still warm and delicious. Sam gulped it down and felt the adrenaline rush fade in an instant.

“Woah, _woah_ ,” Dean said, alarm in his voice, as Sam stumbled sideways. “Okay, Gigantor, you need to help me get down the mountainside. I can’t carry you, and we’ve got a trek ahead of us.”

Walking sounded like the last thing Sam wanted to do, but he locked his knees and forced himself to stand. He could do this. He had to. For Dean, he could do anything.

God, this hunt would’ve sucked without his brother.

All the way down, Dean talked. He explained the things he’d found, the various skeletons he’d wandered through, the cool compass he’d stumbled over, the old oil lamp that had dated the cave pretty well to the gold rush. What he didn’t say, the things that Sam heard between his words, was the fear for Sam, the terror that his little brother was dead.

Sam just held on, tapping on the back of Dean’s neck every now and then to let his brother know that he was listening, that he was hanging on. His big brother, the guy who hadn’t given up on him for almost a full day, had refused to give up on him. It made something in the back of Sam’s eyes burn, because this, this was the reason Sam had given up his voice. This man who’d raised him, his best friend, this was why Sam had done anything to save him from Hell.

They were nearly back down to the car, the thinning trees up ahead visible even in the moonlight, when a light beam blinded them both. Dean tensed underneath Sam’s arm. All Sam could do was try to hold on a little longer.

A familiar, gruff voice cursed, loudly. “Damn good thing I didn’t wait for your call before coming this way. You two idjits, I _swear_.”

“Oh thank god,” Dean breathed out. “Help me with him, he’s lost a lot of blood and been stumbling for the last mile or so.”

Had he? Sam didn’t think he had, he thought he’d been doing pretty well.

With Bobby there, however, it was as if his mind had decided it was a good time to check out. He thought he heard Dean call for him, but Sam couldn’t see anything with his eyes closed, couldn’t hear with the roaring in his ears. He could still feel two solid hands holding him up, however, and then he didn’t feel anything.

* * *

“…do this, Dean.”

Sam slowly floated up to the surface. The motel room hung in shadow around him, the only light coming from the lamp near the table. Two figures sat, outlined in the glow, a pile of food wrappers in front of them. Bobby didn’t look happy. Neither did Dean.

“I’m the last person to tell you a damn thing,” Bobby continued, his voice still hushed. “Mostly because it’s a waste of air. But you two could’ve been killed.”

“We could be killed on any hunt, Bobby,” Dean insisted. “Wendigos are nasty sons of bitches, you know that. There’s no guarantee.”

“It don’t help when one of you can’t talk.”

The tingling in his hands came a moment later, followed by a deep ache that seemed to emanate from his wrists. He glanced down and found his hands wrapped in tight bandages, particularly his wrists. Both held small red stains. His head hurt, too, finally making itself known with a dull throbbing on his left temple. That must’ve been where the wendigo had struck him.

“He handled it pretty good, though. He banged out an SOS until I could find him—”

“Sheer dumb luck, Dean. Next time, you two won’t get so lucky. Then what?”

“What do you want me to say, Bobby? What am I supposed to do here? Neither of us want to quit hunting right now.”

“Is it worth Sam’s life?”

Dean went silent. Sam shifted a little to see them better, and Dean looked…Dean looked tired. Weary. And resigned.

Bobby sighed. “I can’t make you two chumps do anything you don’t want to, but for god’s sakes, just hear me out. You two have talked about gettin’ out of the life numerous times. Maybe this is the time to do it. You two have put in more years than anyone else I know ‘sides me. Maybe, just maybe, you two can hang it up.”

Dean pursed his lips, but he didn’t say anything. Sam stared. Was Dean seriously considering not hunting?

“I got a guy, he could set you both up,” Bobby said quietly. “You don’t have the FBI after you anymore, your names are sorta cleared. He could get you a new social security number, new IDs.”

“Any chance we could get Sam’s records from Stanford?” Dean asked, and Sam’s mouth fell open.

Bobby shrugged. “Frank’s got all sorts of magic tricks up his sleeve. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could fill out a transcript with Sam’s help. Or get a hold of the official one, fudge the important information to match whatever he came up with.”

It was past time to insert himself into the conversation. Unfortunately, as soon as Sam shifted to sit upright completely, his wrists gave way. He stumbled back into the bed, hissing in agony. That was going to make a lot of things more difficult.

Two pairs of hands got him upright, and he blinked through sudden tears of pain. “Hey, you’re all right,” Dean promised. “Lay off the wrists for a bit, all right?”

“They’re not pretty,” Bobby agreed. “I got you a smoothie, it’s in the fridge. Probably easier to eat than holdin’ something at the moment. You’re lucky we didn’t haul your ass to the hospital.”

Frustrated now, Sam elbowed them both away. “Hey!” Dean said, irritated now. “What the hell, Sam?”

His wrists ached but he could still move his hands as necessary. _Still hunt. No stop._

Dean’s face went blank. “We can talk about it later—”

Sam hit the bed with his heel, glaring at Dean. _NOW_.

“Good to know he can still sign,” Bobby muttered. “Sam, it’s not the end of everythin’ if you can’t hunt.”

“You and I are tired of it anyway,” Dean said, aiming for breezy and falling on his face. “Not everyone gets to retire at 25, you should feel lucky.”

_I want to hunt,_ Sam said, then added firmly with jerking movements, _with you._ As hurt and banged up as he was, Sam knew what Dean wanted. And he knew what he himself wanted.

Dean sighed, long and weary. “Sam, I know, but you almost got killed on this hunt. Hunters need to communicate with each other, and…we can’t do that as easily anymore.”

Sam ground his teeth and slid out of bed. He managed to get his feet underneath him without any help and made his way over to the piles of paper they’d accumulated for the hunt. He found the one he wanted and handed it to Dean.

Dean took it and stared at it. The last victim, a young hiker, smiled up from the poster, MISSING written above his picture. They’d found him a day before Dean and Sam had discovered the case.

It was the last victim that the wendigo had taken, and the last one that the creature would ever take. No one else would go missing or die anymore. Because they’d stopped it.

Dean bit his lip. Sam didn’t have to tell him: he knew. Still, Dean just shook his head. “It’s not worth your life,” he said quietly. “And if the wendigo hadn’t killed you, that rockslide you started almost did. And you did that to save me.”

And he’d do it again, too, but reminding Dean of that at the moment was probably a bad idea. _Please,_ was all Sam signed. It was all he had left.

When Dean still didn’t answer, Bobby just rolled his eyes. “All right, sit down, Sam. I’ll get you the smoothie. Maybe…maybe a different system, or somethin’ else we can find. I’m just sayin’, consider getting out while you’re both still alive, will you?”

Sam allowed himself to be guided to the chair that Dean had vacated, and Bobby brought over a smoothie that looked deliciously green. Sam gave the man a smile, hoping it spoke for him. Bobby just patted Sam on the top of the head. “Just stay alive for me,” he said quietly. “All I’m asking, Sam.”

Dean still stood in the middle of the room, alone and looking lost. Sam felt guilt settle in his gut for the first time since he’d made the deal with Naamah because this was his fault, ultimately. He’d given up his voice and left them in this position. He was forcing Dean to choose, essentially, and that was never anything he’d wanted for Dean.

Some of it must have shown on his face, because Dean shook his head. “Don’t start,” he finally said. “This isn’t on you. I’m the one that made the first deal. This is on me.”

Sam shook his head but Dean clearly wasn’t having it. “I’m the reason you don’t have your voice, Sam,” he said in a low tone. “And for that, I’m sorry. I’m not sorry I made the first deal but I’m sorry that…”

It hurt to bend his fingers a little, but as long as he babied his wrists, Sam could sign okay. _I’m not sorry I made my deal either._ Then, because Dean still looked ready to argue, he signed, _Dean,_ with the sign for his brother that meant the most: a D with the _best friend_ sign behind it. He had different ones depending on his mood, like the jerk one or one that meant brother. But this one he used whenever he wanted Dean to understand just how much he loved the self-sacrificing idiot.

It said more than Sam ever could with spoken words, anyway.

Dean swallowed hard. Sam took the time to sip some smoothie and it tasted like the best thing he’d ever eaten. Or slurped. Whatever.

The silence clearly let Dean think, as well as make him eager to break it, because he finally came over and crossed his arms. “We’ll keep going,” he said. “ _But_. I don’t think it’d be a bad thing to let Bobby’s guy get us as legal as we can get again. Maybe get a place to call headquarters. Somewhere not too close to Bobby’s, somewhere we can bed down if we need to.”

That…was far fairer than Sam had expected. “Leave your options open,” Bobby said approvingly. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Dean’s face was resolute, refusing to give an inch, but his eyes still held a trace of fear. Given how long he must’ve searched for Sam, it wasn’t particularly surprising. Still, that was what finally made Sam give a slow nod. At the end of the day, Dean’s well-being came first, and it wasn’t just the part of him breathing that mattered. Dean being happy mattered too. And if this gave him peace of mind, well, he’d take it.

Relief flooded Dean’s face, and he uncrossed his arms. When his hands moved, however, Sam was taken aback. _We’ll do it together,_ Dean signed. _That’s what I want._

Sam swallowed and felt his eyes burn again. Yeah, he could do that.

“Idjits,” Bobby grumbled, but his warm smile gave him away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had sort of a rough weekend. Have an extra chapter just because I can.

They took a long break, partly to let Sam heal, mostly to give Dean some breathing room from the wendigo incident. Sam wouldn’t have known what to do without hunting, but Dean knew. “I had a list of things I never got to do, during my last year,” he said. “We ran out of time, but now we’ve got way more time.” He looked sort of awed, like he really hadn’t expected to see the world after that last sunset.

Sam nudged him in the shoulder, making Dean grin. _No threesomes,_ Sam said, using the word _three_ and _sex_ in lieu of knowing the actual word he wanted.

It worked all the same: Dean understood him. He always did. “Threesomes are only fun if they don’t involve overly-tall little brothers. Nah, I got better things to do. Stuff you and I can do just fine on our own.”

_Things just for you and me,_ was what Sam heard loud and clear. He understood Dean just fine, too. He nodded, smiling. Yeah, that would be just fine.

They set off. The first place took them to Nebraska to Stonehenge…except made out of cars. It was hot, the late summer heat relentless in the plains, and the metal of the cars only made it all the hotter. Dean spent his time half-lamenting that they’d painted beautiful cars gray, half of it loving every single minute of wandering around. A few of the other statues made from car parts were fun to look at, and they both signed their names on the autograph car. Sam even got a passing tourist to take a picture of them, hot and sweaty and grinning far more than they ever had before.

They wandered north to Wall Drug in South Dakota. Bobby called them both morons for stopping at such a tourist trap, then demanded a jackalope. Dean drank so many five cent water cups that he had to stop for a bathroom before they’d even left. And, of course, the pie, which wasn’t anywhere close to the price of a nickel. It didn’t stop Dean from eating three slices, and even Sam put away two. It tasted delicious.

Yellowstone came next, Sam desperately wishing he could talk for the first time as he tried to explain to Dean just how _amazing_ the place was. Dean seemed more amused at his stumbling hand signals, signing back far more fluidly, proving once and for all that he was an asshole. Still, the geysers were beautiful, the wildlife even more magnificent, and Dean even agreed to go on a hike. When they encountered an elk, Dean noted that he’d finally found something “as tall as Sam” and promptly called Sam an elk for the rest of the day.

After that, they went on a bit of a National Park kick, going south and meandering through various states as they did so. Sam insisted on driving and detoured them to Idaho where he dragged Dean into the Potato Museum. Dean wasn’t impressed until he got to the potato buffet bar, and then Sam couldn’t drag him _out_ of the bar. Sam wound up driving again because a certain someone fell into a food coma. It was worth it for the satisfied grin on Dean’s face.

Before Sam knew it, they were in Utah, planning to visit Bryce Canyon National Park after dark, and it was a month after the wendigo hunt. They headed into the park, finding a spot to put the car and heading out into the pitch black. There were no lights from anyone, as everyone had either a red light on or no lights at all.

It made the sudden zig-zag of a figure winking in and out ahead of them all the clearer.

Sam froze. There was no way for Dean to see him in the dark, and he reached out for Dean. His hand hit Dean’s chest, and he began signing against Dean’s shirt. _Dean ghost Dean ghost—_

Dean went still, and then a muttered curse. “I see him. _Crap_. I left my guns back in the car.”

Even as Dean turned, however, a young couple came by the path with the figure, red headlamps shining. Sam caught Dean by the shirt so tightly he was probably cutting off circulation but he didn’t care, because the young couple—

—walked right past the ghost. The ghost simply watched them go, then winked back out. Sam stared, stunned. What the…?

“Guess we’ve got research to do,” Dean muttered. “You got any reception out here?”

Sam shook his head. “Sam?” Dean said again, and Sam realized his brother couldn’t see him. He put his hand against Dean’s chest and signed again. “So we need the motel. Great.”

A lot of people were coming back, and Sam glanced up. The clouds above obscured any sight of the sky. _Car,_ Sam signed, and Dean grabbed him to go back.

“Well, that _sucked_ ,” Dean said once they were back in their room. Their very lit, easy-to-see-each-other room. Dean threw his hands in the air and looked legitimately angry about a possible hunt. “Where the hell do we even start? Do you know how many people have probably died by falling over the side of the canyon?”

Sam didn’t answer, already at the computer. Designated a National Park in 1928, which would align nicely with the hat and the three-piece suit the spirit had worn. He hadn’t been too old, had looked fairly young—

“Are you listening to me at all? Are you deaf as well as dumb now?”

Sam went still, then slowly raised his eyes up to Dean. Dean was already scrubbing a hand over his face and looking nine types of angry. “I didn’t,” Dean began, then stopped. A second later, he grabbed his jacket and took off out the door. The Impala rumbled, loud and as angry as her owner, before slowly fading off.

After a moment, Sam turned back to the computer. It’d been a decent while since they’d actually had a fight. Dean was frustrated, angry, and Sam was an easy target to lash out at. It didn’t make it any better, but Sam got it. He’d have been right back in Dean’s face if he could yell.

Something small and dark slithered up inside of his gut, leaving a twisted feeling inside of him. _He still wants to hunt. The only thing holding him back is you, the guy who can’t talk. What good are you?_

He forced himself to push the thoughts away. That wasn’t where Dean was coming from. Sam knew it, Dean knew it. He’d opened his mouth and emotions had come out. He should’ve caught Dean before his brother could leave to get wasted at whatever local watering hole he could find.

As the long hours passed without Dean returning, however, the feeling in his gut just kept getting worse. He had himself an idea of who their ghost was – a man named Daniel Keeting who had thrown himself over the edge after the stock market crash in 1929 – but given that he’d been carried back up and buried in a family plot in St. Louis, Missouri, there wasn’t much that they could do about the body. He could call Bobby, but oh yeah, he’d have to do so through a webcam because he couldn’t talk. He could do a blessing to dispel the spirit, but he couldn’t speak to do that either.

He had no business hunting. He didn’t regret giving up his voice for Dean’s soul, but it looked like there was going to have to be more of a sacrifice than just the ability to speak.

He needed to get Bobby to help. He was going to need paperwork for himself, and…and someone else to hunt with Dean. They’d made it almost four months, but Dean was right: like this, Sam couldn’t help him. Not…not like this.

Somehow, in his thoughts, he’d missed the returning rumble of the Impala. He didn’t miss Dean coming through the door, looking far more sober than Sam had anticipated. Dean seemed surprised to see him, making Sam feel ten times worse. Had Dean expected he’d be gone? Sam doing another runner, as per usual? Except this time, he wasn’t leaving for himself, he was leaving for Dean’s sake.

“I thought you’d have gone to bed,” Dean said, nodding to the clock. “I figured you’d be asleep already.”

Oh. Sam just shook his head, then decided this conversation needed to be had without hands. He pulled up the information he’d found on Keeting for Dean to see. Dean glanced at it and shrugged, tugging his jacket off. “He buried local? Or are we gonna have to get creative?”

Sam didn’t move, just sat, staring at the screen. The blessing they needed was tucked away in an email from when they’d used it before, but giving it to Dean just felt like giving up completely. And he had things he wanted to share first.

“Sam?”

Sam swallowed hard. Dean sighed, somewhere to Sam’s left, but Sam didn’t dare look. “Listen, about earlier—”

He moved the mouse down to a word document he’d had open and pulled it up. Dean went quiet as Sam began to type, slow at first, then faster and faster.

_You weren’t wrong. The spirit isn’t buried here, so we’d have to do a blessing. A blessing I can’t say because I can’t speak. You were right: I’m useless to you like this. You need someone who can_

“Okay, stop right there,” Dean said angrily. “I wasn’t right, and I never said you were useless.” He paused, and his voice this time was a little quieter, a little guiltier. “All right, I wasn’t too far from it but that was me mouthing off. I’m just frustrated.”

Sam just hit enter and started anew. _Because you’re hunting with someone who can’t hunt right. Face it, I can’t help you. You can’t understand me_

“Bullshit, I can understand you just fine.”

_for hunting. You need someone who can yell, speak, just even talk to_

Sam found his chair yanked away from the computer, leaving his hands empty and devoid of words. Dean loomed over him, fury in his eyes. “I do talk to you, a lot,” Dean snapped. “You’re the only one I _can_ talk to some days. Do I hate that you don’t have your voice? Yes. Do I miss hearing your voice? More than I can describe to you.”

It wasn’t easy, shrinking back into the chair, but every word hit like a barb, and Sam retreated the only way he could: physically downward. Dean followed him down, keeping eye contact the whole way. “Do you know what I hate the most about it? You gave up your voice for _me_. Because of what I did. You went through every opportunity, any hint of a chance of getting me out of my deal, and in the end, the only way you could manage it was to make a deal of your own. You not being able to talk is on me.”

Tentatively Sam raised his hands to sign, and he could’ve sworn Dean’s shoulders dropped in relief. _My choice. I’d do it again._

“I know,” Dean said, much quieter now. “That’s what makes it so hard. But I don’t exactly have a ton of room to talk here because I’d do mine again, too. Which is why this whole thing you’re spelling out, literally? I’m not here for it. I’m not doing this without you. You want out, Bobby can get the papers, we’ll walk. You want to stay in, we’ll keep going.”

_I can’t do the blessing._

“So you find me the blessing, I read, you cover. My Latin’s not as good as yours but it’s not bad enough that I can’t do a blessing.”

Sam paused. _If we can’t see or I can’t use my hands, we’re sunk._

“Yeah, that’s a little worrisome for me, too. I mean, that’s part of why I was so pissed,” Dean admitted. “I wanted us to not have to deal with spirits and supernatural crap for a while. And then there’s a damn ghost and I can’t see you or hear you. Doesn’t help my blood pressure, dude.”

Of course that was the base of Dean’s anger: fear and worry about Sam. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, hand motions hesitant and careful, _You want to hunt with me?_

“There’s no one else I’d ever trust like you, Sammy.” Dean gave a small smile at that. “Just because you’re mute doesn’t mean you’re not the best damn hunter I’ve ever known. Well. Outside of myself, of course.”

Sam scowled at him and smacked at him with the back of his hand, making Dean’s smile broaden. “I mean it, bitch.”

_Jerk._

Dean pushed himself away from the chair, but paused all the same. “Do you want out?” he asked seriously. “Because I swear to god Sam, if you’re ready to be done, I will go, and I’ll do it gladly. I’ll stay in if you want to stay in too, but I’m going where you’re going.”

They were the words that Sam had silently begged for all those years ago when he’d left for Stanford, words he’d tried to tug from Dean at various points since his future had burned with Jess. They still felt like a balm on his soul, his big brother ready to drop it all and leave it behind to stay with him.

Dean wasn’t the only one who was ready to follow his brother anywhere, though.

_We can take it one case at a time. Assess each time. Take big breaks._ He glanced at the word document, full of half-finished sentences, then closed it out without saving. When he looked back, Dean’s shoulders were definitely far lower. _I just don’t want to be a burden,_ Sam said, spelling out the last word for lack of a good one to utilize.

Dean shook his head before he could get out the last letter. “You’re not, okay? You’re the thing that keeps me sane. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was just frustrated about our trip being ruined by a stupid spirit.”

Sam snapped his fingers twice, and Dean immediately stood straighter. Oh, he’d forgotten about that, Dad calling them to attention by snapping his fingers like that. He paused, the idea rushing through his head. He might not be able to talk, but he could still make sound.

“One for no, two for yes?” Dean said, apparently on the same wavelength, and Sam nodded with a small grin. He pointed to the research again.

“What about him?”

_He didn’t hurt anyone. He just stood still. He threw himself off after 1-9-2-9 crash._

Dean frowned for a minute. “Wait, the stock market crash?”

Snap, snap. Dean’s face lit up in a grin. “Yeah, that’ll work. Okay, fine, let’s coordinate with Bobby, make sure we have all the ingredients we need. Then we’ll do the blessing tomorrow night and hopefully get some stargazing in. And I still want to go hiking down in the canyon, see one of those how-do-ya-dos up close.”

_They’re h-o-o-d-o-o-s, Dean._

“Meh, close enough.”

* * *

In the end, Keeting went peacefully, looking relieved to be released. Sam could well imagine it after having waited almost 80 years in between. Dean even appeared surprised at how silently and swiftly the spirit moved on.

No clouds blocked their view of the Milky Way, and Sam had to admit that it was extraordinary. They stayed out well into the early morning hours, only leaving when they couldn’t stop yawning. Sam bought a poster of a professional photograph that depicted what they’d seen before they left. _For wherever we end up,_ he said when Dean just looked at him funny as they pulled out.

There were times that he could read Dean like a book, and right then and there, his brother looked so warm and fuzzy that Sam couldn’t help reaching out to pet him on the head. That earned him an elbow to the side which came with swift retaliation on Sam’s end, and by the time they’d settled down, panting for air and slightly bruised in a few spots, they were miles down the road again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This'll be ten chapters, folks.

The fall brought a week at Bobby’s, mostly because he demanded that they come back and prove they were alive. “You can stay a night, keep me company,” he told them.

A night turned into a week primarily because people kept dropping in. Like Rufus, who was surprised to see Dean still alive but not at all surprised to hear that Sam was the reason why. “Too smart for your own damn good.” He drank to Dean’s good health, of course, and then drank a lot more.

Ellen and Jo both wandered through as well, and Jo shocked them all by being extremely well-versed in sign language. “There’s a hunter, she’s deaf,” Jo said with a shrug. “She’s really sweet. We’ve been talking together for a long time.” She put Dean’s speed to shame and taught them more curse words. Ellen seemed extremely proud that her daughter was the bad influence for a change and not the other way around.

Rufus said he had a webcam, though he said the sound and audio were crap on account of him having dosed it with holy water. Still, if they needed him, he could see them well enough to help, and if he needed Sam’s know-how, he’d be able to get it. Ellen promised to get one set up to take with them so Sam could chat with them whenever he wanted to talk to someone, and it was enough to make Sam feel overwhelmed with how much people cared. He’d grown up with the idea that Dean was the favorite, Dean was the charmer and the go-getter and the best hunter, and Sam was the little brother who tagged behind. To know that others were willing to go above and beyond to communicate with him, well.

It took a little getting used to. That was all.

On the last day of their visit, a man showed up that Sam didn’t know, one who looked a bit…wild, but one Bobby knew very well. “Boys, this is Frank,” he said. “Best in the business.”

“Which I’d rather not talk about if it’s all the same to you,” Frank said, rolling his shoulders back and scowling at them like they’d personally offended him. “Let’s just get to it.”

He hauled out a folder for each of them and handed them over. Social security cards, new driver’s licenses with Bobby’s house set as the main address, birth certificates, school records. Everything that said they were a normal human being living a normal life. Everything they’d need to get a job. There were even falsified W-2 documents and tax records.

“Woah,” was all Dean said. Sam just nodded.

“Consider it a debt repaid,” Frank said, nodding to Bobby. “And a favor owed sometime down the road.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Now wait just a minute—”

“These weren’t easy to pull together, y’know, I had to pull strings of my own, Singer. Strings I did not want to pull but did because it was you. And honestly, it’d be nice to have the Winchesters available to come help me if I need them. A favor’s all I’m asking.”

Dean just raised an eyebrow. “We’d come help anyway. You know that, right?”

Frank seemed unable to process that, and it reminded Sam of a computer that stalled in the middle of a program. _Loading please wait_ he signed, and Dean snorted and grinned before signing back.

_More like a reboot._

Sam just shook his head with a disbelieving smile. _That is not how you sign ‘reboot’,_ and he joined his hands, knuckles entwined, before bringing both hands up sharply, joining them even closer in front of his chest.

Dean just made a face. “I like mine better,” he scoffed. “It’s more sophisticated.”

“You signed ‘repeat boot’,” Bobby said, giving him a look. “You’re lucky Sam knew what you were talking about.”

Frank finally raised a hand. “You’re…mute? I didn’t know you were mute.”

Dean and Bobby both went still. Sam resisted the urge to cross his arms – he’d had no idea how often he did it until he couldn’t due to needing his hands to talk – and signed, _And?_

Frank just shrugged. “Color me impressed. I know regular people that can’t function as well when they talk, and you two are hunting. That’s a feat.”

“Yeah, well, my brother’s the best,” Dean said, pride clearly in his face, and it made Sam’s cheeks heat.

Frank left after ensuring he had their numbers (“I’ve had them for a while, obviously, but I like to get them the old-fashioned way too.”) and then it was just down to the three of them. Sam stared at the pile of things: there was even an outdated _library card_. Because nothing said you existed more like a ten-year-old library card.

Then his eyes caught on a black piece of plastic and he froze. No way.

“What?” Dean said, ever hyper-vigilant. He glanced at what Sam held up and stared. “No _way_.”

“Frank really did come through,” Bobby said, sounding impressed. “If it works like mine does, there’s no limit. I wouldn’t start stayin’ at the Ritz every night, but it’ll do anything you ask it to.”

Dean dug through his piles and triumphantly pulled out his own. He glanced at the card a little closer and frowned. “Dean Singer?”

Bobby coughed suddenly, eyes anywhere else than them. “He needed a name,” he said, a touch defensively. “I didn’t figure you’d mind.”

They didn’t mind, and Sam didn’t bother with sign language, just took two steps and buried Bobby in a massive hug. Bobby just hugged back, and when Sam let him go, Dean looked like he wanted one, too. Bobby just tugged him in.

They left not too long after, ready to get on the road, Dean itching to try out the new credit cards. “Got a case, if you’re interested,” Bobby said as they headed out. “It’s down in Ohio.”

Dean just turned the car east.

* * *

Spirit case followed spirit case, then a black dog, then a coven of witches. Well, an attempt at a coven of witches. Mostly teenage girls who had no idea what they were doing, and the one teenage girl who was possessed by a demon acting as the ringleader. The whole thing would’ve been far more worrisome if the demon hadn’t done what it did: take one look at them and immediately vacate the premises, leaving the girl behind, safe and sound.

That made them sort of stop for a minute. If nothing else, it was weird. Weird in a lot of ways, but mostly weird in general. It was the first demon they’d really encountered since Lilith had been wrapped up in a neat gift box for Naamah, and to have it suddenly leave was just, well, weird.

It was Dean who made the suggestion, once the girls were safely back with families. “You don’t think it was…scared of us, do you?”

Sam made a face as Dean started the Impala up. _Scared? You think it ran away?_

“I mean, we _are_ kinda famous. The Winchester Brothers, kicking ass, taking names.” He grinned and Sam just shook his head. “Oh come on, it’s an idea. Why the hell else would it suddenly up and turn tail?”

It didn’t seem anywhere close to true, that a demon would just immediately see them and run away. Still, the idea lingered, and Sam carefully made a search for demonic activity. Just to help people, of course. And maybe, just maybe, test the theory.

They came across a possession down in Georgia, and the demon growled at them. “Should’ve known you two would show up,” it hissed through the voice of the elderly man.

“Hey guess what? I’ve got the cure for that,” Dean said, and began reciting the exorcism. Even before he could finish the first line, however, the demon snarled at them one more time before throwing the man’s head back and taking off in a plume of black. The man crumpled to the ground, groaning.

Sam stared at Dean. Dean stared at Sam. _What the hell?_ Sam signed.

Dean began to answer, but the man groaned again, and they needed to help him first. It was only hours later, once the hospital had gotten a hold of the man’s son, and the man thanked them profusely over and over again for saving his life from the “tremendous stroke” he’d had, that they finally had a chance to talk alone.

Dean stopped in front of the car in the hospital parking lot and threw his hands in the air. “What the hell, Sam?”

_I asked that already._

“Yeah, but seriously, what the hell?”

_You think I know? That’s two demons that ran when we showed up. Demons don’t do that. Ever. For anyone._

“Whether they’re Winchesters or not,” Dean agreed, a bit sullenly. “So seriously, again, what the hell?”

Sam just rolled his eyes and jerked his head to the car. There was a good way to get someone else’s thoughts on the matter, but he’d need his webcam for it.

Bobby was just as stunned as they were. “What the hell?” he asked, incredulous.

Sam just laid his head down on the table. “That’s what we said,” Dean said above him. “Why would they do that?”

Bobby began to answer, then stopped. Sam raised his head at the sound, frowning. It was the little things that heightened, when a sense stopped working. When you couldn’t talk, you were uniquely aware of the sounds around you, what people sounded like. The little hitched breath in to speak that went nowhere was definitely one that Bobby didn’t make very often.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Well,” Bobby began. “I wonder if this ain’t really to do with Sam’s deal with Naamah. Like the one where Lilith got snuffed because of him. Or how your soul’s no longer Hell’s property. Both would make the two of you hands-off, as it were.”

Sam stared. Dean began to speak, his lips parting and making the tiniest of sounds, before he closed them tight with an almost audible click of his teeth. “Only thing I got,” Bobby said. “Otherwise, no, it doesn’t make sense.”

No, it didn’t make any sense otherwise, and the longer Sam thought about it, the longer the idea started clicking. _So Hell is possibly leaderless?_ he signed.

“Or Naamah’s in charge and pretty happy to do you a favor. Last thing I know I’d want on my doorstep is a Winchester soul. Why don’t you ask your Hell source what’s goin’ on?”

Hell source? Dean’s eyes widened at the same time as Sam’s. “Ruby,” Dean said, then nodded. “If anyone would know, it’d be her. I’m actually surprised we haven’t heard from her.”

So was Sam, now that he thought about it. He hadn’t done more than text her a thanks after Dean had come out the other side safe, to which she’d replied with a simple, “Tell Shortbus well done.” That had been months ago, now.

“Dammit.”

Sam glanced over at his brother who looked seriously annoyed. _What?_ Sam asked.

Dean glared at him. “Since you can’t talk, I have to be the one who calls her. And don’t think I won’t bring up that whole ‘demon in a box’ thing.”

Sam just grinned. Dean rolled his eyes, and somewhere to Sam’s right, Bobby muttered about them being idiots.

* * *

Ruby didn’t answer the first time they called. Or the second time. She did, however, text after the third time with a single message. _See you in two days. Keep driving._

Dean just rolled his eyes again, but Sam felt the first stirrings of worry in his gut. As much as he’d insisted on them hunting, the idea of being tossed back into a demonic civil war with everything that it entailed wasn’t on his list of things to do. Regular hunts that helped people, sure, but being some puppet for a demon would make him quit on the spot.

On the drive out of Wichita, two days later at around nine at night, their headlights began to sputter and the radio went wonky. “What the,” Dean began, but Sam yanked hard on his jacket. There ahead in the road was a familiar blonde, arms crossed, eyes black in the light. On her lips hung a smile.

Dean shut the car off and stepped out. “Hey Shortbus,” Ruby said fondly. “I wasn’t sure if Sam’s idea would work but I am _damn_ glad to see you.”

“Yeah, I owe you,” Dean snapped. “One good one in the face.”

Ruby just raised an eyebrow. She didn’t look fazed or surprised at all by his outburst. “So what’d she take? She wouldn’t have been interested in your soul. I see your eyes are fine, and you have all your limbs, so clearly she wasn’t asking too much.”

“She shouldn’t have taken anything,” Dean started, but Ruby suddenly narrowed her gaze. Sam just gave a small nod. He’d known what he was getting into. And he still didn’t regret it.

“Of course she took something,” Ruby said. “I warned Sam she probably would. It was that or wait and see if she came back to try and take your soul. Better to give her something you’d willingly part with than wait to see if she’d be on your tail.”

The look on Dean’s face said he still wasn’t thrilled with the options. “Voice, huh?” Ruby said, and Sam nodded again. “Probably your best idea, really. Smart thinking.”

“He can’t _talk,_ ” Dean shouted suddenly, fury in his gaze. “And that’s the smart idea?”

“Would you rather it be his soul she took instead?” Ruby said calmly, and Sam was fairly certain his brother was going to deck her.

He put his hands up, hoping to stall what was bound to be an explosive argument. _Wait, wait,_ he signed, fingers frantically waving in front of him, then thought it didn’t matter, and two hands held up between people was understood in every language. _STOP._

Dean kept his eyes on Ruby, rage only growing. “You were the bitch that gave him the demon in the first place—”

“And he made the deal for your soul,” Ruby pointed out, and Sam flinched. Dean only looked all the more murderous. “I’d think you’d be more grateful.”

“ _Grateful_?” Dean exploded. “He can’t talk, he can’t say anything, because of _me_! He gave up his voice to save me and I’m supposed to be _grateful_? Do you know how it feels, you ass? Do you?”

“No,” Ruby said simply, and she nodded towards Sam. “But I’m betting that Sam’s had about a year’s worth of experience feeling that way.”

Dean froze. Sam winced before glaring at Ruby. _Really?_ he signed. _Did you have to?_

“You’re expending what little sign language I know,” Ruby admitted. “But I’m sure you’re not happy with me. Well, Dean’s not the only one you pissed off with your incredibly lucky stunt.”

Dean managed to find his voice, at least, because Sam’s was long gone. “What?”

Ruby grinned, then flinched. It occurred to Sam then that she wasn’t so much crossing her arms as much as she was holding herself. He straightened even as Dean took a step towards her. “What happened?”

She shook him off, her arms staying exactly where they were. “Nothing you can heal. I just need time. Trust me. You pissed off a _lot_ of very powerful beings with what you did.” She laughed then, well, more cackled than anything, and she looked almost proud. “I didn’t figure we had a chance against Lilith or anyone else, and you beat them all. You did good, Sam. You did good.”

Sam couldn’t help asking, _Are you okay?_ and figured from the way her smile softened that she understood just fine.

“Yeah. Or will be. It was worth it, trust me. I played some double agent of my own and now I’m clear. Which’ll be nice.”

“Double agent?” Dean asked, but he’d lost the fire from earlier. “Do we want to know?”

“It’s all done now,” she told him. “There’s no apocalypse, no end of the world. Lilith’s been tanked, which means every single one of everyone’s plans is permanently put on hold. I got confirmation with, well, this,” and she gestured gingerly towards her abdomen. “So we’re good. Don’t worry about it.”

 _The demons,_ Sam began signing, and Dean nodded. “Does that have anything to do with demons literally fleeing at the sight of us?”

“First of all, I didn’t know you knew the word ‘flee’ in that context,” Ruby said, but she was frowning. “And what do you mean?”

“They see us, they take off. Pretty sure that’s what flee means.”

Ruby kept frowning, but slowly she began to nod. “Maybe. Probably. Hell’s sort of a mess right now but if there’s going to be any chance of getting things under control, involving you two is probably a bad idea. Especially if you managed to spank Lilith. No one wants to deal with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a gag order of sorts, or a restraining order. And if they want to get things back on course, well, they need you both up here.”

The way she said it made Sam think that probably wasn’t likely: her smirk was far too amused. “There any chance of that?” Dean asked.

Ruby just grinned. “Without Lilith? No chance. You’re both fine. I can’t guarantee that the demons will leave you alone forever so enjoy it while you can, but for right now, yeah. You should have an easy time of it.”

An easy time of it? Winchesters didn’t have an easy time of it. But the idea that maybe there wasn’t an open season on them would let them just take whatever hunts they wanted. They could just… _be_.

When he glanced up, Dean was staring at him with something that looked a lot like hope. “You know what it’s like to have an easy time of it?” he asked, lips turning up.

Sam found his own smile broadening. _I don’t know. Let’s find out._


	7. Chapter 7

They rolled from one place to the next. A haunting on the east coast turned into a few days wandering the boardwalk and playing in the sand. They played tourist in D.C., with Sam leading the way and all but bouncing through the Smithsonian Museums. Dean just rolled his eyes and followed, but he seemed more fond than really irritated. Even found the Air and Space Museum interesting, and Sam lost him more than once.

They caught a hint of something spectral in northern Virginia by means of visitors to said museum, and that sent them down to deal with a spirit who nearly killed a group of teens before they sent it packing. One of the teens knew a smattering of sign language and she managed to sign her name and say thank you, which left Dean amused and Sam touched.

It was there, getting back into the Impala two weeks after leaving Ruby, that Dean brought up the conversation for the first time. “I didn’t know, about what Ruby said,” he said.

Sam stopped, halfway inside. Dean stood outside the car, staring over the top of it with remorse in his eyes. _What?_ Sam signed. _What didn’t you know?_

“I mean, I did,” Dean said, enlightening absolutely nothing for Sam. “Sort of, but not really. It was peripheral.”

_Dean,_ and he signed the nickname for brother with a hint of agitation because only his brother could make him this exasperated sometimes. _What?_

Dean fidgeted on the other side of the car. Sam wanted to shake the answer out of him but refrained.

Finally Dean spoke, but it wasn’t anything that Sam had anticipated. “The way I feel now, guilty that you can’t talk and have to resort to sign language. Because of me. That’s how you felt with the deal.”

Oh. Sam tried to shrug but it didn’t feel like a casual sort of shrug. It felt sharper, jilted, and so very awkward. He brought his hands up to sign but left them there, hanging in the air. What else was he supposed to say except that it was true?

He got now why Dean hadn’t felt sorry. He got Dean’s side of it for sure, trapped with nowhere else to go but determined to get his brother back no matter the cost. He understood now.

Seemed that Dean understood Sam’s side of it now, too.

_Sorry,_ Sam signed belatedly. It wasn’t something he’d wanted Dean to feel.

Dean sighed and glanced away. “It’s an ugly feeling,” he said quietly. “I just sort of hate knowing that this is how you felt for a year.”

Sam rapped two knuckles on the top of the Impala, catching Dean’s attention. _I have more than a year,_ he signed. _I have a long time ahead of me. And a voice doesn’t mean anything to me. Not like you do._

The smile he got back was sad and resigned, but it was a smile at least. Sam rapped his knuckles on the top of the car again and got in. Dean stood, composing himself, and Sam let him have his moment. God only knew he’d had his fair share of moments leading up to the deal.

A moment later, Dean slid inside and shut the door. “You smack your knuckles on top of my car again and I’m going to smack you.”

Sam just smiled as they headed down the road.

* * *

They ran into Ellen and Jo around Memphis, and Ellen promptly did some smacking of her own when she realized they were still hunting without an effective way of communicating with each other. “Haven’t either of you heard of an emergency whistle?” she said in exasperation. “Or a signaling light?”

Oh. That would make sense. “You two are hopeless,” she groaned, and sent Jo to help them find something.

In the end, they both got whistles as well as distress signals, and they stayed a few more days to hang out with the Harvelles. Ellen got called about a case up in the mountains and they tagged along to help.

It wound up being a good thing, too. What was supposed to have been a black dog turned into some nasty snake that Sam still wasn’t sure _what_ it was. What he knew was that it was fast, it was nearly silent, and it was _big_. Bigger than Dean’s car.

It also had a nasty bite. If Sam hadn’t moved as fast as he had, Jo would’ve taken it in the chest. As it was, it caught its jaws around Sam’s middle. Jo let out a shriek for him before she plunged her knife into its head. After that, Sam didn’t really remember much.

Later, when he woke up in the spare room of the Harvelles’ cabin, Sam found out through Ellen that he’d managed to set off his distress signal, blaring a loud alarm which gave Ellen and Dean a perfect way to find them. It’d even been louder than Jo’s screams for help.

Dean didn’t mention it. Dean didn’t talk to him for two days, actually. He stayed close, helping Sam sit up, bringing in food, checking his bandages. But he didn’t say anything to Sam. He heard Dean speak well enough to Ellen and Jo, so it wasn’t a matter of Dean losing his voice like Sam had. It was just…a choice. One that bothered Sam beyond words, but it wasn’t like Sam could say anything to call him out on it.

He’d just have to get sneaky about it. Because he knew why. And he was sort of done with it.

He asked Ellen for some paper and a pen, which she supplied with a knowing grin. Apparently Dean’s silence had been noted by her, too. Sam set to work, writing and sketching until his hands cramped and he ran out of paper. He managed to get it folded up before Dean came in again with dinner.

A paper airplane nailed Dean straight in the forehead when he walked in. He got a glare for it but no words. Sam just nodded to it and sat back.

Dean ignored it and set dinner down for Sam to reach. Sam just crossed his arms and looked away. Two could play this game.

There was a short inhale but Dean still said nothing. Sam jerked his head towards the fallen paper airplane again and then stayed exactly where he was. For a long moment, there was silence.

Then Dean shifted away and, slowly, picked up the paper airplane. Only then did Sam turn back to watch his big brother.

It wasn’t much. The initial _Read Me_ on the outside of the paper airplane was followed up by the sketch inside. Crude as it was, the house was unmistakable, as was the large barn beside it. And the black Impala was definitely recognizable, parked between the two.

Dean looked at him then, frowning. Sam took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the other stack of papers. Studying to be a lawyer hadn’t all been criminal cases, after all: there’d been writing up of deeds and contracts, understanding the legalities of business law. It was why Dean’s deal with the crossroads demon had been so impossible to break – a simple, binding contract between two individuals, one of whom had refused to show until the day to sign over the keys, as it were. Sometimes, the simplest contracts were the hardest to deal with.

It had made finding the loophole easier, though. With no addendums or clauses, it had just needed the right amount of leverage to break open.

Not that Dean cared about it right now. No, his attention had moved on to the stack of papers that Sam had presented to him. The first one was a sample of a deed for a house contract, owned by Dean and Sam Singer.

The rest of it were memories.

_My very first memory is you, holding out the marshmallows from Lucky Charms in an attempt to get me to follow you to the bedroom so we could sit and play. I didn’t know until years later that Dad had been out, hunting a shifter, and he’d been worried that it had tailed him back to the apartment we were renting. You’d kept me away from the windows and doors; you’d kept me safe, even when you were barely more than seven._

_Your favorite cereal was Lucky Charms, but you always gave it to me whenever I asked. One of the kids on my school bus told me once that you’d traded your baseball cards with his big sister for a box of the stuff because I’d asked for some for my birthday. You got sick not too long after with a bad cold: you ate the entire box. I lied and told you Dad had gotten you some._

_When I broke my arm when I was nine to what I later discovered was a black dog, you whined about my whining but you still bent a clothes hanger so I could scratch inside my cast. It was a hot summer and the air conditioner barely worked, but you still stayed inside with me instead of going to the motel pool. You kept me sane that summer. You’re about the only thing that really keeps me sane now._

_The winter you turned fifteen, I begged Bobby for your gift. He had me work around his place for the money and then drove me into town to get it. Dad didn’t have anything for you beyond a beer so I told him I’d share my gift with him. The AC/DC cassette collection you got was from me._

_When we were in Grove Point…_

It was a weird assortment of emotions that played out across Dean’s face as he read through the first page: a little awe, a little bewilderment, a lot of surprise, but mostly fondness and what Sam knew was love. When Dean seemed to realize that there were pages of memories to read through, he stopped and glanced at Sam.

Sam brought his hands up. _Where you go, I go. If we’re done, then we’re done._ They’d danced around it enough, gone in and back out again. The last few times had been Dean wanting to keep going and Sam heading back in with him. The last time, after the wendigo, had been Dean ready to quit but Sam determined to keep it up.

Maybe this time, they were both ready to be done.

Dean swallowed hard. “I can’t keep losing you,” he said, the first words to Sam in days. “I just can’t.”

The paper airplane sat just within reach. Sam pulled it out and offered it to Dean again. A barn to hide the Impala in, as well as hide their weapons. A house for two of them to ward up and keep them safe. There were plenty of places like that for sale in the country. They could make it work.

Dean slowly nodded, then gave a quick smile. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.”

* * *

They stayed with the Harvelles long enough to get Sam’s feet back on solid ground, then started looking. Within a few weeks they’d figured out that somewhere in Indiana would work out. For one, there were plenty of schools for Sam to choose from, something that Sam didn’t think was much of a priority but Dean clearly thought otherwise.

The other was that Dean actually had a connection near Indianapolis, of all places. A guy he’d met while Sam had been in Stanford had been so impressed with the Impala that he’d offered to buy her. When Dean had turned him down, he’d told Dean to come work for him instead. “He told me to hit him up if I’m ever in the area,” Dean said as they headed towards Indianapolis. “I think I can be in the area. That is, if he remembers me.”

The man, Lewis, definitely remembered Dean (or at least the Impala). He asked Dean to help him with a car he was currently working on. It gave Sam time to wander around the shop which looked to serve daily drivers as well as some racers. This close to the Indy 500, it wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it still wasn’t Dean’s speed.

The small bay at the very end, where Dean was working, was definitely more his brother’s speed. It looked like a Nova, bright cherry red, and Dean was hip-deep into the engine. When he pulled his head back out to look at Sam, it was with a massive grin on his face. “So what do you think?” Lewis asked him. “Think I can get it running?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Should run now. Top it off and let’s get it going.”

The car started right up. Lewis turned to Dean. “Nobody else in the shop knows a damn thing about cars before ’85 except for me. If you came on board, I could market myself for the classic car crew. I know you weren’t interested before, doing something with your family’s business, but—”

“That’s shifted,” Dean told him. “I’m available.”

Lewis’s eyes all but gleamed at the prospect of having Dean on board. With their newfound IDs, paperwork moved through, and before Sam knew it, Dean had a part-time job that would give them a steady flow of income.

Sam’s paperwork came through, too. Indiana University Bloomington jumped at the chance to enroll him once they saw his transcript from Stanford, and offered to give him an interpreter so he could sign to his teachers and fellow students. Sylvia was old enough to be his mother and as southern as could be, her afro barely held back with her brightly colored headbands. Most importantly, she was very, _very_ fast. She taught him a slew of new signs and managed to get him even faster than he’d been before, just in the first week alone.

Dean was on board with all of it, which was more surprising than anything else. Dean went with him and got new books, Dean made sure that he could get Sam to and from campus in between his work schedule. Dean even insisted on getting Sam a new backpack so he could be a “cool kid” or something to that effect that made Sam flip him off.

What Dean had not been on board with was Sam switching majors, of all things. _What’s wrong with Library Science?_ Sam signed when Dean realized what was going on. _Or minoring in Classical Studies?_

“What happened to law school?” Dean shot back. “All of your credits line up towards doing law!”

_Not all of them. The school’s known for its Library Science program. I can be in and out with a bachelors in two years, easy. The minor in Classical Studies—_

“You mean the minor in _Latin_ , Sam.”

Sam stopped. The fact that Dean had actually interrupted him while he was signing was an indication of how upset Dean was. He rested his hands in his lap and pinched his lips. Just because he was willing to let Dean have the floor and talk didn’t mean he was thrilled about it.

It was enough to get Dean to stop too, however. Dean put a hand over his mouth and shut his eyes for a minute. Tentatively Sam waited until Dean opened his eyes to sign again. _Is it about the money? I’ve got two small scholarships lined up which will help._

“It’s not the money,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care about it. I just…if you want to do law, Sam, do law.”

_I don’t want to do law. I want to do this._

Dean pursed his lips. “And this has nothing to do with getting back into hunting, right?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. _I can’t believe the day has come where you’re determined to have nothing to do with hunting._

“Not nothing! I helped Rufus when he called last week!”

_You told him to talk to Ellen._

“That was helping!”

_Saving people, hunting things, remember?_ Sam signed with a soft smile. _Consider this me helping to set up for saving people without being in the hunting side of things. We can start our own library. Have our own base of operations. You said headquarters before. We can do that._

“You need a degree to be a librarian? You put back books every day, what’s so special about that?”

Sam rolled his eyes hard enough that he felt them lodge briefly in the back of his skull. He grabbed the laptop and typed into the search engine, then spun it around to show his findings. Namely, the base salary of most librarians with a Master’s degree.

Dean blinked. “Well, why didn’t you open with that?”

Sam just shook his head and started to close the laptop. Dean’s hand slid between, however, catching Sam’s attention. “You’re sure,” Dean said. It wasn’t a question.

Sam nodded. “And the Latin, too?”

_Classical Studies, Dean._ He hadn’t decided on the exact minor, specifically, but there were plenty of options. Maybe Greek. Latin would be a breeze, with the number of Latin courses he’d already taken at Stanford. He wasn’t sure Dean knew about those, actually.

“Then do your thing,” Dean said. “I guess we better actually start looking for a headquarters and not just lounge about the apartment, huh?”

_There’s no ‘lounging’ here, anyway. It’s a temporary rental._

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first twenty times. You know how much I hate real estate?”

_Maybe we’ll get a cute realtor._

“We’ll get an old hairy dude is my guess.”

_You’re an old hairy dude._

“Shut up, Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the tag "almost a curtain fic." Specifically the word "almost."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um.
> 
> Hope you enjoy?

It wasn’t a cute young woman or an old, hairy dude. It was an elderly woman who looked vaguely familiar to Sam. It wasn’t until she began signing with him that he realized where he’d seen her eyes before: they crinkled with her smile the same way Sylvia’s did. “Sylvia’s my daughter,” she said proudly. “Are you Sam? She’d mentioned a young man who was her new client. She’s awfully fond of you.”

Somehow, when Sam had made the deal with Naamah in exchange for saving Dean from Hell, finding an old Victorian-type house with a large workshop out back hadn’t been in the cards. Yet here he was, in January, looking at the house that needed some TLC but had a lot of promise. Dean was losing his mind over the workshop, and Sam? Sam had his eyes on the library in the house.

Well. It was the third floor, but Sam saw a library where someone had clearly used it as an attic. There were already some built-in bookshelves in need of repairing that Dean had taken one look at and said, “Easy.”

They got the place easily, thanks to Frank’s incredible records of their supposed credit score. With the money that Dean was pulling in from Lewis’s shop, they were more than set. And then there was the credit card that they could put groceries on. Or, well, furniture. Because they actually needed it.

_Furniture_. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to think about that.

Of course, the first order of business, besides the beds and a sofa and a television (which Dean demanded be as big as possible), was getting Dean’s precious car a place of her own. Sam was fairly certain that the car was going to get to sleep indoors before he did, but Dean just told him to “make fists,” or his new way of telling Sam to basically shut up about it.

By the time Sam was properly in classes and they were settled in, with Dean helping Sam set up the library and Sam starting to catalog the first of his rare books, it was the beginning of March. Dean proudly claimed one of the bedrooms by setting his cassettes up on his only shelf. Sam hung his Bryce Canyon poster in the living room.

Everything was going swimmingly. They even had three phone lines, dedicated to various needs like FBI and U.S. Marshalls, and Ellen had their information and numbers. They were going to be a safe space for hunters. They were going to make it work.

Which was, of course, about the time everything went to hell.

A knock on the door right before bed proved to be a familiar face, looking far healthier than she had been the last time Sam had seen her. “Hey Sam,” Ruby said with a small smile. “Mind, uh, moving the welcome mat?”

Sam glanced down and saw that she was standing to one side of their welcome mat, and it looked as if she might topple over if she stayed there for much longer. Amused, he snapped his fingers twice, catching Dean’s attention and bringing his brother to the door. Dean took one look outside and grinned. “What’s the matter, Ruby? Can’t wipe your feet like everyone else?”

“You’re hilarious as ever, Shortbus,” she said with a scowl. “Can you just move it? Or come out here and talk? No, actually, we need to talk inside some wards.”

_Well that sounds like good news,_ Sam signed, making a face. So much for their easy time of things. He stepped out and carefully moved the mat aside, glancing briefly at the devil’s trap painted underneath. Still there, unbroken.

Ruby darted in quickly and shuddered once she got inside. “What the hell kind of wards did you use? No, you know what, I’m better off not knowing. It’s making me itch.”

“Then you’d better get to the point,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “And how the hell did you find us?”

“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “You two went so low under the radar I thought you were maybe dead. I wound up tracking you via more human means: a paper trail. Namely, your names. There’s only so many Dean and Sam pairs with the same last name, even if it is now Singer, apparently. That’s cute, by the way.”

Sam made a face as he closed the door. He hadn’t thought of that. _We’ll deal with it later,_ Dean signed to him. _Not now._

“Can you two not do that? I can’t understand most of it,” Ruby said.

“Not here to make you feel better, sweetheart,” Dean said with a plastered grin. “What do you want?”

“Hell’s under new management.” Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Three guesses as to who, first two don’t count.”

Sam felt his stomach fall somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. “Naamah?” Dean said, stunned. “She took over?”

“It wasn’t like she had an opponent running against her,” Ruby said with a shrug. “So yeah. She’s the reigning monarch.”

Dean glanced at Sam and Sam took the opportunity to sign, _What do we do now?_

_I don’t know. Hold on._ “What’s this mean to us?” Dean asked. “We’ve got no beef with Naamah.”

He got a raised eyebrow for that. “You sure about that? Because last I heard, that wasn’t the case.”

“Yeah, well, personal griping aside, I’m not looking for a fight.” Dean shrugged. “So again, what’s this mean to us?”

There was apprehension on Ruby’s face, and Sam knew that wasn’t going to mean good things. “You might not care about Naamah taking the crown, but other parties aren’t as impressed. They wanted Lilith on the throne for their own reasons. And you two messed with that. Well, one of you more than the other.”

Dean and Ruby’s eyes both went to Sam. Sam swallowed hard. “I’m not involved in the scene,” Ruby said quietly. “I’m out and done. But I’m still tuned in enough to hear what’s going on, so I came to warn you. You might have trouble coming your way.”

“We appreciate it,” Dean told her, far quieter now than he had been before. “You, uh, want coffee or something?”

Her smile was genuine. “I should go. Just because you two seemed to drop off the map doesn’t mean that I’m not trackable. I’ll keep in touch, so if you get a text from me that says to take off, drop everything and run.”

She left once Dean moved the front mat again, and then it was just the two of them. The silence that Sam had grown accustomed to suddenly felt stifling. Somehow, he'd forgotten just horrible it felt to suddenly fear for his brother’s life.

“Never ends, huh?”

He glanced over at Dean whose eyes were firmly planted on the wall. On it were several pictures of them from the past several months, and in the middle was the poster of Bryce Canyon’s view of the night sky. “Just when you think you’ve got a shot,” Dean said quietly. “That’s what I’ve been afraid of. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

There was no way for Sam to sign to him, nothing that Sam could say anyway that would be anything different. All their good efforts, their hard work, and they were right back where they’d started: stuck in some sort of hellish battle that they’d never asked to be a part of.

He didn’t care about the degree, not really. He didn’t even care about the library that was starting to look full. No, what Sam cared about, what he’d always cared about, was the man standing in front of him, the guy who’d raised him, the brother that he’d give his voice and soul and life for again and again if he had to.

Dean finally turned to him, but it wasn’t with the heartache or the resignation that Sam had been expecting. No, it was with a fire that took him aback, honestly. Dean looked ready to do battle and be happy to do it. He held up his hands, a bewildered, _What?_ to Dean’s suddenly, fierce change.

Dean’s lip curled up into a snarl. “If they think for one split second that they’re coming for you, they’ve got another thing coming. They’re not touching my little brother. They make a move on you, it’ll be the last thing they do.”

It left Sam more than a little humbled, to know that Dean was so willing to fight on his behalf. _Me too,_ he signed.

It was Dean who gave a fond little grin then. “We’ll call Bobby, Ellen, give them the heads up. If it’s coming for us, whatever it is, it’s got multiple ways to get to us. They need to know.”

And Sam had plenty of books upstairs to help him try and figure out what, or who, might be so willing to fight for Lilith that they’d come take on the Winchesters.

They’d deal with it, no matter what it was.

* * *

They were nothing close to cowards. They were determined to stand together, fight beside each other, hunt together. They’d learned how to communicate through silence, they were better than ever.

Yet when the day dawned with a blood-red sun, and Ruby’s text simply said, _Run_ , they did the most courageous thing they could’ve done.

They took their bags, they locked everything up, and they grabbed hold of each other and ran. This time, however, Sam wasn’t so sure they’d be so lucky as he’d been the first time.

They made it to the border of Indiana and Illinois, racing for South Dakota, when Sam saw the smoke of black coming at them. He grabbed hold of Dean’s jacket and managed to point at it. “I see it, I see it,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

It meant that they didn’t see the figure in the bright blue shirt, standing in the middle of the road, until it was too late.

They hit the figure hard enough to send the Impala somersaulting through the air, landing on its top and slowly spinning to a stop. Sam blinked through blood and immediately looked for Dean. “Sammy,” he heard, and there was Dean, bruised with a cut on his face but otherwise okay. Sam gave a quick sign and Dean let out a groan. “We gotta get out, now, can you move? Out the window, go—”

And then Dean was gone. Sam almost shouted out for him but managed to swallow it back in time. Frantically he dragged himself out of the window, hands torn by the shards of glass, and desperately looked around for his brother.

Dean was across the road, shaking his head and pushing himself up. Stalking back to the car was the figure in blue, a man with a bright dress shirt and a pudgy face, a narrow nose, and a sneer. “I wanted to be the first to introduce myself, Sam Winchester, since you personally deprived me of my prize,” he said. His ugly smile promised nothing good. “My name is Alastair, chief… _artist_ of Hell. Your brother was meant to be mine and here you have him, nowhere near my rack. If I can’t have him to rip and tear and carve into, I’ll have to suffice with you.”

His eyes suddenly went white, just like Lilith’s, and Sam froze, long enough for the demon to suddenly appear in front of him. He caught hold of Sam’s ankle and flung him further down the road and away from Dean. The asphalt ripped at his skin, tearing a gasp from his throat when he finally slid to a halt. His face burned, his side ached, and it felt like he was on fire. Sam forced his arms under him to try and get up, he had to get up—

He suddenly found himself on his back, Alastair’s foot pinned on top of his chest. In his hand was a long, metal rod. “You know, I usually prefer to take my time,” the demon mused. “But even Picasso had to sketch quickly from time to time. And trust me, Picasso ain’t got nothing on me.”

His eyes went back from white to normal, and his lips turned up in a smirk. “You ruined a lot of plans, in particular mine. I wanted the infamous Dean Winchester in front of me, I wanted to shred him, I wanted to _enjoy_ him. And since I’ve been deprived as mentioned before, well. Mutilating you will have to be my pleasure instead.”

He swung down and Sam never felt it hit. Pole collided with flesh and Sam could only stare as Dean went flying from the hit. He crumpled on the asphalt not far from Sam, head bleeding, eyes closed.

Alastair snarled and lifted the pole again, but suddenly the black plume that Sam had seen before descended on them. Sam covered his face as best he could as he felt it pulling on him, tugging like little fingers pinching everywhere, and then a moment later, they were gone, the black smoke and Alastair. Sam realized he was panting and couldn’t stop himself from shaking. Blood dripped off his forehead and landed beside his hand on the pavement.

Blood. Dean. _Dean_. He managed to stumble forward, his side screaming with pain and his ankle not quite working right, and knelt next to his brother. There was no signing he could do here, nothing that would let him call out to Dean. He shook Dean, then shook him harder. Dean didn’t respond, eyes still closed, blood coating half of his face. His chest rose and fell, at least, and his pulse was slow but there.

The hit had been meant for him. And Dean had taken it instead.

Phone, he needed the phone, he could get music to get Dean’s attention, or text Bobby, or text Ellen, or—

Or help. He needed help.

He frantically pulled his cell phone out and found the screen cracked, but it still lit when he pressed the right buttons. Making sure his TTY was on, Sam began his call to emergency services. Then he knelt next to Dean and counted his brother’s breaths.

When the ambulance arrived, parking beside them and lighting up the upside-down Impala, Sam still hadn’t moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> I'll make it better.


	9. Chapter 9

“Pulse is dropping—”

“Keep a defib handy, yes, but I need blood in here now—”

“No signs of responsiveness—”

“Oxygen levels are low—”

Sam let it wash over him while he stood and watched a host of medical personnel descend on Dean. Somewhere, there was pain, but he was numb to it. He was numb to anything except for Dean’s body, motionless from the minute Alastair had struck him down.

He’d given up his voice and Dean was dying anyway.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

Sam slowly turned to the older woman in scrubs. “I need to get you back to your room,” she said, not unkindly. “I need some information and to get you looked at. Your friend’s not the only one who was in a car crash.”

Brother, Sam began to say, then stopped. Hesitantly he began to sign instead, his left arm aching. _D-E-A-N is my brother_

“Oh, you’re deaf,” she said. “That’s right, they mentioned that. Can you write? I’m afraid our interpreter won’t be here until at least ten in the morning. I can call him if you need someone sooner.”

He shook his head and pointed to his ears, then gave a thumbs up. His hand went to his throat and he shook his head. He’d done the same thing with the ambulance crew and they hadn’t understood him. She frowned, clearly not understanding him either. “I’ll get you a pad of paper,” she finally said, over-emphasizing her words as if to help him read her lips clearer, and she tugged at his arm. “This way, now.”

“Where is that blood?”

Sam turned back to Dean. They were still working frantically, moving as quickly as they could around Dean. The pulse kept beeping slower and slower.

“This way,” the nurse said again, and Sam stumbled as she led him two doors down from Dean. He could just hear the calls of staff, loud but not frightened, and he wondered if it was because Dean had a chance, or if they were so used to people dying that this was just part of the routine. What did that mean for Dean?

The nurse brought him in to where another nurse was at the ready. “He’s deaf,” the nurse told the young man waiting, and Sam wanted to scream. He wasn’t deaf, and even if he was, it didn’t mean he’d be lacking in intelligence. She didn’t need to lead him around like a damn dog when Dean was _dying_ in the room a few down from him. He didn’t need to be there, he needed to be with Dean. He could do that much. Instead, he was dealing with people that, while well-meaning, couldn’t understand him and kept ignoring him.

The young man nodded and gave Sam a quick smile when he sat down on the bed. “My name is Raj,” he said, and then he did something that no one else had: he signed R-A-J with decent efficiency.

Sam stared. _S-A-M,_ he signed back. _I’m not deaf, just can’t talk._

Raj startled. “Oh! Not deaf, then. That helps a ton. You’ll have to help me, my sign language is a little rusty, but we’ll get you taken care of.”

Sam felt his eyes burn. Finally. _Finally_. The lack of an ability to communicate had hit harder than he’d thought it would, and to be heard after what felt like hours left him feeling raw.

In the end, he wound up having to use the paper anyway, just to get down the intricacies that he couldn’t easily sign with what appeared to be a sprained wrist and Raj’s lack of knowing more than conversational ASL. All in all, Sam had some deep cuts from the glass, a minor concussion, a fractured ankle, and some serious road burn. He’d limp away from the attack.

Dean…wouldn’t.

He stayed in the bed, mostly to keep close to Dean, but sort of in deference to the demands of the staff. They promised to keep him updated about Dean if he hung around, so Sam dozed in the ER bed, his sleep broken by doctors and nurses coming through to check on him and assure him that they were doing everything they could for his brother.

When Raj came in with Sylvia, Sam sat upright in bed. “So our interpreter is out,” Raj said apologetically. “You’d mentioned Sylvia and since she’s listed as a contact, I called her up. Figured I’d save that wrist from all that writing.”

_I mean, I always figured I’d get you a wrist brace for all the alone time you have, but if it’s because of writing_

Sam shut his eyes tight for an instant at the memory, then reopened them, blinking away the sting. He gave Raj a thank you and then found himself engulfed in an embrace. “Next time, _text me,_ ” Sylvia murmured. “I’m not just here to advocate for you on campus, y’know. And you’re a friend, too. I show up for friends.”

_Thank you. Can you find out about Dean?_

“I’m not at all surprised that’s your first question. I’ll see what I can do. They want to move you upstairs for observation—”

_No,_ Sam signed firmly. _I need to find Dean._

“—which is exactly what I told them you’d say. Can you walk, or do I need to get your stubborn self a wheelchair?”

They wound up not doing a wheelchair, but Sam knew he’d lucked out. One misstep and Sylvia and Raj would have him sitting with wheels. And it was so stupid because he wasn’t the one who needed help, it was Dean. Dean who’d jumped in the way of Alastair’s swing.

_Crumpled on the ground, blood covering his face, eyes closed, completely still._

“They moved him upstairs,” Sylvia said as they hobbled to the elevator. “A few floors up. I’ll make sure you can talk with the doctor up there.”

Fourth floor opened to the most ominous three letters Sam had ever seen: _ICU._ He swallowed hard as they stepped inside towards the desk. A nurse promised to find them the appropriate physician and urged them to take a seat in the small waiting area.

The elevator opened again just as Sam took a seat next to Sylvia, and he blinked as Bobby hurried out. He swung his gaze around until he found Sam, and his shoulders dropped. “Thank hell,” he muttered. “They told me they’d sent you both up here and I was terrified you’d taken a turn for the worse.”

“Just Dean, I’m afraid,” Sylvia said. “Bobby, right? I’ve seen your photo a few times. It’s nice to put a name to a face.”

“Sylvia, I presume,” Bobby said, shaking her hand with a small smile. “Back at you. I appreciate your helping Sam out.”

Sam began tapping his foot as a way of making any sort of sound in the conversation that surrounded him and excluded him all at once. They weren’t doing it on purpose, he knew they weren’t, but the fact that he couldn’t talk left him without a way of cutting in. It left him feeling even more powerless than before.

A man stepped out to join them not long after that, white coat on and expression grim. “Family of Dean Singer?” he asked.

“He all right?” Bobby asked immediately. Sam held his breath even as Sylvia caught hold of his hand and squeezed.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said. “He’s got swelling and bleeding in the brain. We think we’ve got the bleeding under control, but it’s going to take time for the swelling to come down. Massive cranial trauma like he sustained isn’t just tossed aside.”

Sam immediately began to sign to Sylvia about seeing Dean, but the doctor kept going. “He’s still doing really well, though,” he said. “There’s nothing we can really do except wait at this point.”

_When can I see him?_ Sam asked, but again the doctor cut in.

“I think, if he heals from this, his age and health will help him. Beyond that, it’s a waiting game, as I mentioned before.”

“Thanks for that,” Bobby said, and Sam suddenly shoved himself out of his chair. He was done waiting, done being ignored because he couldn’t communicate, done with anything except what would help get him to Dean.

“Um, does he need something?” the doctor said as Sam stalked off, ankle flaring in paint in the boot beneath him, but he didn’t care. There were only so many rooms in the ICU. He’d find his brother.

Sylvia’s voice came through, loud and crisp and radiating disappointment. “His name is Sam and that’s his _brother_ you’re talking about. And Sam isn’t deaf, he can hear you just fine. And even if he were, it doesn’t mean he’s not a person!”

He kept going. Let Sylvia and Bobby deal with it, or not. He had bigger priorities, and they didn’t involve people who refused to try and communicate with him just because he could talk. Much bigger priorities.

Like the brother whose room he’d just passed. Sam slowed, his ankle appreciating the less-punishing gait, and carefully walked in.

He wasn’t intubated, at least, only a canula under his nose, but he did have more machines around him than Sam had expected. And he was still, so still. It left Sam desperate to make him move, see him sit up, talk, dance, yell at Sam, _anything_. Anything beat him in that bed, looking as close to dead as Sam had ever seen.

He found himself all but falling into a nearby chair. The heart monitor kept beeping away, and his lungs rose and fell. That had to mean something. It had to mean Dean would be fine, that his brother would wake up and grin, that he’d make fun of Sam’s hair in one breath and make him a cup of coffee with his favorite pastry in the next. That he’d take on a hunt at Sam’s side, that he’d be there for Sam and sign faster than him and laugh at him and listen to him while Sam signed—

He had to be fine.

* * *

For the next week, Sam lived in the ICU room with Dean. Bobby made sure that they left when the floor closed to visitors and Sylvia only tried to encourage him to go to classes once. He didn’t care. Nothing else mattered except Dean.

The doctor and nurses didn’t talk to him, but not for the mute reasons. No, it had everything to do with his brother who wasn’t turning a corner, who still had yet to wake up. The likelihood of Dean living decreased with each day that there was no improvement or sign of waking.

Sam wondered if that meant he’d be able to speak again, and he found himself in the bathroom bringing up everything he’d eaten that day.

He texted Ruby after that. _Dean’s dying. Some demon named Alastair took him out. I need help._

He didn’t get a response. Figured.

There was always a crossroads deal to make, and there were two crossroads, one on each side of town. One of them was paved but the other was gravel. Easy to dig. Easy to make a deal. It’d be so easy, to take one of the IDs that he had—

Maybe it’d reflected in his eyes, maybe it’d been his sudden burst of enthusiasm. Whatever it was, Bobby came to him one day and told him, “No.”

Sam frowned, staring at him over the top of Bobby’s truck. The Impala was at Lewis’s, with Lewis promising he’d fix it up good. _What? What’s wrong?_

“I don’t know what you’re plannin’, but whatever it is, no.”

Sam froze. “You and your brother are like two peas in a pod,” Bobby said with a glare. “And I know if you get half a chance, you’d do the same thing. I’m here to tell you that I won’t let you.”

_Dean’s going to die._

“You don’t know that. The swelling’s come down.”

_Then why isn’t he awake?_

“Because Dean’s always leaned towards the dramatic,” Bobby snapped, and suddenly he was on the other side of the car, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and shaking him. “Goddammit Sam, I’ve nearly lost you both numerous times over the past few years and I will _not_ let you throw yourself away. I love your brother, I do, but I love you too. And if you went and did somethin’ stupid, he’d never forgive me.”

_Or me?_ Sam signed.

“No. He’ll always forgive you. But he won’t forgive himself.”

He slumped in Bobby’s grasp, which loosened, just a bit. “Just give it a bit more time,” Bobby said, gently. “Your brother’s strong and he’s got a damn good reason to come back.”

He could only hope it’d be enough.

They headed in and took up their usual spots in Dean’s room. Sam couldn’t talk to Dean, not anymore, so when Bobby began recounting a story from when they were kids and how Dean had nearly hooked his own underwear the first time they’d gone fishing, Sam closed his eyes with a grateful smile.

* * *

The sounds of frantic beeping pulled Sam from his sleep in an instant. There was a flurry of activity around Dean’s bed, and his eyes went instantly to the heart monitor. It had flatlined.

“Get the paddles!” someone called, and Sam stared in horror. No. No, he couldn’t have slept through Dean…no, this couldn’t be happening.

But they were bringing in the paddles and Sam was going to have to watch them try and shock Dean back to life again. _Come on,_ he thought. _Come on, Dean, you can do this._

The first shock did nothing. The second shock did nothing. Sam realized he was standing, wringing his hands and sending aches through his sprained wrist. _Dean, no, please no. Come back. Fight, dammit._

The doctors stepped away, but it was with grim faces, and Sam felt his heart stop. “Call it,” one of the nurses said, and someone said a time, a time that didn’t matter, none of it did, because Dean was gone. Dean was _gone_.

“Sir? Sir!”

Sam bolted upright in his chair with a gasp. A nurse crouched in front of him, looking concerned. “That looked like quite the nightmare,” she said. “Are you all right?”

He managed a nod and glanced at Dean. The heart monitor continued on, beeping away steadily. Alive. Not dead. Just a dream.

“Sounded pretty bad,” the nurse continued. “You were calling out in your sleep. Mine area always bad when I do that.”

Sam froze and turned to her, stomach dropping. “Let me know if I can get you anything,” she said with a sweet smile and left then. Left Sam with his brother and the knowledge that…

He’d spoken. He hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t done it intentionally, but in his sleep, he couldn’t control that. No, he must’ve been able to control it and just hadn’t.

Oh god, he was going to lose Dean.

He slid out of the chair and over to Dean’s bed, knees digging into the linoleum, tears in his eyes. Ten months, and he’d blown it with a stupid _nightmare_.

His hand found Dean’s and caught hold. _I’m sorry,_ he couldn’t help but think. _Oh god Dean, I’m so sorry. I tried so hard. I’d do anything to help you and I blew it._

His voice, his soul, all of it, he’d give it all up if it meant Dean would live, if he’d get to keep his best friend.

Something squeezed his hand. Sam raised burning eyes and found half-lidded eyes watching him. “I miss somethin’?” Dean murmured.

Sam gasped out a laugh, then another, then a sob. He buried his face in the side of the bed and cried. A hand rested on top of his head, weak but there, and Sam kept crying.

Somehow, even though he’d done it all wrong, he was still allowed to keep his brother. He had Dean, and that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I made it better!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter here we go!

“I swear to god, if you ask me if I’m fine one more time—”

_I just want to make sure you’re taking it easy. You jumped right back into work with Lewis, and now this._

“First of all, mechanic stuff isn’t that difficult. It’s not like most of the classics that come in are trash heaps. And this? It’s a spirit case, Sam, not a wendigo.”

Of course he’d bring that up. _Like spirit cases haven’t gone really wrong._

“Yeah, I figured you’d bring that up. Look, I’ll tell you if I’m not feeling it, all right?”

Sam paused. That was more than he’d gotten from Dean in a while. _Seriously?_ he finally signed.

Dean sighed. “Yeah, I promise. I know the past two months haven’t been a picnic for anyone. Look, I’m working with Lewis again, I’m not dizzy, I can walk and run and I still have better aim than you do.”

That was unfortunately true, and something Dean had proven just a few days ago at the shooting range. Still, it made Sam nervous to be standing outside the old sawmill in Kentucky that apparently had a spirit problem. Both Ellen and Jo had offered to come up to help out, and Bobby had mentioned he and Rufus would be in the area if they needed them. Dean had declined all the offers, but he’d clearly been touched.

Sam had been less thrilled about saying no to extra help.

Two months since Dean had woken up in the hospital with what the doctors said was an incredible turn of events. Thankfully, no one had said miracle. Just the brain healing when it had been allowed to rest.

Not that Dean and Bobby had completely believed that until Sam had sworn up and down that no, he hadn’t made a deal. Thought about it, absolutely, but he hadn’t. _All you, Dean,_ he’d signed, with ‘Dean’ and ‘big brother’ signed together. Bobby had believed him before Dean had. Well, Dean had said he believed Sam, but there’d been serious fear in his eyes for a bit.

For the damage that had been done, Dean had had very little rehabilitation. Some trouble walking the first few days, and his aim hadn’t been quite right for a little while; otherwise, he’d been in great shape. Far better than Sam could’ve hoped for during those long days sitting and waiting.

He still felt like he was waiting, even after Ruby’s text back that had mysteriously said, _Alastair’s taken care of. See you around._ That didn’t mean there weren’t other demons that would come after them. Worse ones.

“Hey.”

Sam glanced over the top of the car. Dean watched him with a knowing look. “I’m fine,” he said again, softer. “It’s been two months. And I wouldn’t dare do this if I didn’t think I was capable of backing you up.”

Put like that, and Sam finally nodded. Dean would risk himself relentlessly, but he’d never risk Sam. Not once. _Sap,_ Sam signed.

Dean just rolled his eyes and grinned. “Let’s waste a ghost, Sammy.”

The spirit gave them the run around for a few hours, but eventually their research paid off, and they were able to locate the remains. One salt and burn later, and the spirit disappeared with an enraged scream. Dean whooped and all but beamed, and Sam shook his head with a smile.

They’d done it. They’d really done it.

“C’mon Sammy, bed time, you’ve got school in the morning,” Dean said cheerfully as they headed back out to the car, and Sam shoved him to the side. Dean laughed, loud and bright, and Sam grinned.

_I don’t have school now, the semester’s over. I’ve got summer break._

“Oh that’s right, I forgot. School’s out for summer.”

_Don’t sing it. Don’t you dare._

“Don’t you get tired of getting all As? I didn’t get all As and look at me, I’m an upstanding citizen.”

Sam flipped him off, making Dean all but cackle. The night air smelled sweet around them as they made their way back to the car. They had a motel for the night and they’d make the drive home tomorrow. Home. They had a home. It was weird, in a good way.

“Hello, Samuel Winchester.”

Sam’s head whipped up. She wore a beautiful green dress that was modest, yet offered her almost soft femininity and allure. Her hair flowed down around her, and her eyes were bright and full of power.

Naamah.

Dean didn’t even hesitate, hand already moving to the gun that Sam knew always sat at his back. Sam didn’t bother with signing, he just grabbed Dean’s arm and wrenched it back. “Sam, no!” Dean shouted. “Let go!”

Sam shook his head. No way he could sign with both hands wrapped up in his brother. Dean needed to calm way the hell down first.

Naamah stood and watched patiently. Dean snarled at her, lips pulled back to bare his teeth and everything, but it was actually his aggression that made Sam let him go. If Dean had relaxed, Sam would’ve expected a counter-attack. This was Dean acknowledging what needed to be done but still demonstrating how _very_ unhappy he was about it. Fair enough.

“What do you want?” Dean finally snapped.

“I came to see Samuel,” she said. Sam’s chest felt off, wrong, or maybe that was just his poor attempts to breathe. Came to see him? What the hell did that mean? Had she brought that other demon, Alastair? She looked to be alone but he couldn’t guarantee that.

Dean’s eyes went to Sam. Sam slowly shook his head. _I don’t know what she wants_ , he told his brother. _Can you ask her? Nicely?_

He emphasized the “nicely” part as strongly as he could. Dean snorted but finally signed, _Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a wad,_ which would _never_ cease to amuse Sam and bring out a snort. Oddly enough, his chest didn’t feel as tight, and maybe Dean had known what he was doing when he signed those last few words, after all.

Dean cleared his throat. “Sam gave you an offering, you got out of the box. I think we’re all good here.”

“I have need of Samuel,” Naamah said. “I won’t be long.”

Sam froze. Almost a year. In fact, nearly down to the minute, now that he looked at his wristwatch. Had he somehow traded his soul for Dean’s? Was she going to take him, much as Lilith had almost come for Dean?

“ _No_ ,” Dean seethed, low and full of rage, and Sam’s eyes went to his brother. Dean was already standing in front of him, arms spread out as if to take the brunt of whatever blow Naamah had coming their way. “You want him, you go through me. Haven’t you already taken enough?”

“I took nothing. It was given freely.”

Something Sam still remained true to. He tugged at Dean’s shoulder, but Dean refused to move. Sam sighed and pinched him, hard, and Dean finally turned to face him. “What?” he snapped, but he signed it as well, which was more than Sam could’ve honestly hoped for at that point.

 _Just let her talk,_ Sam told him. _You can’t fight her and I’m not going to lose you again._

 _What part of losing you is okay?_ Dean signed desperately. _I don’t know what the hell she wants!_

“You could, perhaps, ask me,” Naamah said, and she almost sounded smug. Of course she could understand sign language. Dean froze as he seemed to realize the same thing.

Sam took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped around his brother. Dean made a choked-off protest but did nothing to stop him, only curling his hand around Sam’s elbow. Not to hold him back, just to hold, and Sam felt a wave of ridiculous love for his brother run through him. Pissed off, scared as hell, but refusing to leave him by himself. That was Dean, and Sam remembered exactly why he’d given his voice to Naamah.

Dean dying was never going to be a part of the equation. Not unless Sam was ready to die, too.

Naamah was waiting for him. _What do you need from me?_ he asked.

“I don’t need anything from you,” Naamah said. “I have a need _of_ you. You’re a hard man to track down.”

Dean’s hand tightened around his arm. Message received. _We’re hunters,_ Sam told her. _It’s our job to stay off the grid._

He’d kept his hand motions calm, to emphasize how very much he was _not_ snarking at her. Still, it wasn’t until her lips turned up that he allowed himself to breathe. “So you are. And very good hunters at that. Hunters with morals. Not every hunter would hold himself to such rigid terms. You _are_ aware that you can still speak, correct?”

Dean inhaled so sharp behind him that Sam was afraid his brother had choked. “He can what?” Dean managed to get out.

“He’s been able to speak all this time,” Naamah said. So he’d been right. She met his gaze evenly. “He simply hasn’t.”

Dean was practically vibrating behind him. If Sam turned around now, he knew that he’d meet a glare of incredulity, or worse, maybe even one of betrayal. “Then why—"

 _It was a gift,_ Sam signed, firmly and deliberately. _An offering is no good if it’s not kept in good faith._ If he’d spoken, he might not have been hunted down and slaughtered, but Dean’s soul had been on the table. Sam would’ve given his own life for his brother: a vow of silence was nothing compared to that. Somehow, despite his transgression of speaking in his sleep at the hospital, Naamah hadn’t rescinded her deal.

There’d been a few sleepless nights of Dean in the hospital bed, resting, while Sam had hoped and prayed that Naamah wouldn’t show up.

Naamah’s smile was one of pride, and Sam instantly knew he’d gotten it right. “Sam took the burden of maintaining his offering, and he did it well. For that, I am honored.”

There was a pause. “However.”

Sam stopped breathing. Dean’s hand had pretty much cut off circulation at this point, and his other hand was now gripped tightly in Sam’s shirt, ready to haul him away in an instant.

If Naamah noticed, she made no nod to it. “I am now well established once more. Before, I held nothing but my own righteous fury, but now, now I have regained my status. I am settling the balance that Lilith destroyed in her pettiness and zeal. Souls are measured by their merit, not just stuffed into the great maw of Hell. Order has come.”

Sam blinked. _You brought order to Hell_? he couldn’t help but sign.

She raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t as difficult as you might think. The place had been left unattended by Lilith’s vendetta and…other plans. Plans I have no intention of resuming, and will let Heaven and Hell determine their own paths. So any who were determined to take matters into their own hands are no longer in the picture.” She raised an eyebrow. “One of whom apparently tried to start anew those plans two months ago. He’s…no longer in the picture.”

Alastair. She had to mean Alastair. Sam almost breathed.

“I have also found a soul that matches mine. One that I can call my own, and he may call me his. As you may understand, I have everything I could want. All because of your offering, which gave me strength when I was weak, power when I was empty.”

“Still waiting for the ‘however’ part of this,” Dean growled.

Naamah tilted her head but let it go. Not that Sam’s heart was going to stop pounding swiftly anytime soon. “I had ordered those citizens of Hell to grant you leeway in exchange for your continued silence.”

So she’d been behind the demons turning tail and leaving, after all, and behind the demons who’d probably whisked Alastair away. Before Sam could sign his thanks, her gaze narrowed. “However, I have recently been informed that I have contention to the throne of Hell. There have been a few political advancements, of course, but apparently there is one who, by fate, would be granted the seat before me.”

The words flew like ice through Sam’s veins. Him. She meant him. The Boy King.

There was no kindness in Naamah’s gaze anymore. Her eyes flashed green and she placed her hands behind her, where she no doubt had a weapon of choice waiting for her. Dean pulled him back, and Sam stumbled to follow.

“I’m here to give you a choice,” Naamah said. “Relinquish your claim on the throne and we shall go our separate ways, and we shall owe each other no more. Or, you can decide to take your chances-“

“Wait, what? That’s it?” Dean asked incredulously.

Naamah frowned. “’That’s it’?” she quoted back. “What do you mean?”

Sam managed to find his fingers, though his signs shook. _I don’t want the throne,_ he said. _I never did. I just want to stay here with my brother._

There was a long moment filled with tense silence, and Sam knew that Dean was wishing he’d grabbed the Colt from the car. Sam had no mojo, no juice, nothing to get rid of her or even hold her, but he was praying it wasn’t necessary. _Please_ , he thought, _please believe me, please let us go, please just let me live, let Dean live._

They were sitting ducks and she knew it. Sam could feel his lungs burning with the need to breathe. Naamah’s hands came forward from behind her.

Both of them were empty. She smiled once more. “Then we shall go our ways,” she said. “Samuel Winchester, your gift has been found worthy, and you have no need to continue your offering. Be at peace, and know me as an ally in your times of strife.”

She snapped her fingers and suddenly Sam gasped as a cloud of air seemed to push past his lips and dive straight down into his lungs. He choked and coughed for a moment, but when he managed to get himself back under control, she was gone.

“Hey, hey, _hey_!” Dean shouted, coming around in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulders and trying to steady him. “Are you all right? What’d she do? Sammy?!”

Whatever she’d taken must have been some sort of connection to his voice, a way of knowing whether he would speak or not. She’d let it go, though. She’d let him go.

With trembling hands he grabbed hold of Dean’s jacket. Dean’s gaze was still wide and full of worry, and Sam let his lips turn up into a grin. “Dean,” he whispered.

Dean went still. Sam’s throat was rough and felt like he’d gargled with gravel, unused for a year, and his word barely heard, but he spoke again, this time louder. “Dean. Dean. _Dean-“_

Dean pulled him in and held onto him so tight Sam thought his ribs would crack. “Sammy,” he choked. “Oh god _Sammy._ ”

They stood there in the headlights of the Impala for a long moment. Sam tasted salt when he smiled, and when they separated at long last, Dean’s bright smile was also covered in tears.

They were truly free.

* * *

Sam found he couldn’t stop talking.

His throat seriously hurt, but Dean kept buying him lozenges and would just pass him another one whenever Sam’s voice started wearing out. Never did he tell Sam to shut up or stop talking. Sam figured he’d be getting a pass for a while.

Bobby had demanded that they come up to see him as soon as he’d found out. There had been a pause on the other end of the line when Sam had spoken to him, then Bobby’s voice had come through, wavering in a way that Sam had never heard. They’d promised they would make it to him in the upcoming weeks, but Dean surprisingly hadn’t insisted on right away. “Got a vacation first,” Dean had said. Sam had just grinned as he called Lewis and said that yeah, he could use the extended time off after all.

Sam talked about everything. Random topics like more memories from their childhood that he hadn’t written down, that meant more to him than Dean probably realized, hunts that Sam had actually enjoyed, hunts that Sam had hated and the reasons why, school, Jess. The year before and times he’d wished he could talk. The hospital with Dean and being unable to communicate. Dean took his hand at that point, holding on tight, and Sam breathed and breathed.

They drove up to Bobby’s and Sam found himself the recipient of the most bone-crushing embrace he’d ever gotten. When Bobby pulled back, there were tears in his eyes. “Goddammit,” he said, and then he hugged Sam again.

Sam shared stories and talked there, too. Bobby and Dean let him, silent except for when Sam clearly needed a break. Otherwise, they were content to listen, to let him speak. He felt like a balloon, ready to fly up into the sky, he was so elated.

It wasn’t until Dean said something that he realized he was signing at the same time. “You’re still using your hands?”

Sam stopped talking and glanced down. His fingers were already twisted into the last word he’d been saying. “Oh,” was all he said.

Dean just shook his head and grinned. “You don’t need to do that anymore.”

“I know, I just…” It was familiar. Comfortable. It was a part of him, now.

“Speakin’ of things you do or don’t need to do,” Bobby said, and he almost sounded hesitant. “Ah, hell. What are you two doin’ next? If Sam can talk again, hunting gets a lot safer and easier.”

That wasn’t anything that Sam had considered up to that point. In the end, however, his answer stayed fairly the same. “I go where you go,” he said simply to Dean. Dean blinked, and Sam signed the word for best friend with Dean’s name. In it to the end. And if that meant abandoning a degree, again, and leaving the house they’d found and the jobs they’d taken to go with Dean and hunt, then he’d be packed by the end of the day.

He knew what mattered the most to him, and it wasn’t the school or the house or even his own voice. It was the guy sitting across from him.

Dean rubbed his chin, clearly thinking it over. “I’ll be,” Bobby said, smirking. “Dean Winchester learned to stop and think.”

Dean flipped him off, making Bobby snort. Still, it took Dean another minute before he answered. “Look, we can do a lot more hunts this way. But…we’ve got the Queen of Hell on our side. You’re a year and a half out from the first degree and I know you want to keep going on to the next degree, don’t even give me that face.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need it,” Sam began, but Dean waved him off.

“Maybe I do. I like my job with Lewis. I like the headquarters we’ve got set up. I like knowing that we can do the hunts we find but that we can also help other hunters.” He paused, his gaze focused on Sam. “But I like knowing that you’re safe a hell of a lot more. I love hunting, it’s who I am, but I’m also your big brother. It’s the only job that’s come before hunting, and you having a stable place with all your books and wards enough to give demons pause before trying to come after you? Yeah, I can live with that.”

Sam swallowed hard. “You sure?” he asked, then realized his hands were still moving.

Dean’s lips turned up. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m sure. Though we’re going to have to figure out how to tell Sylvia that you can suddenly talk.”

“Advanced scientific test trial,” Bobby said immediately. “No less miraculous than your trauma recovery. I think you’ll be all right. I can have Frank do up some documents, too.”

“So he can say we owe him even more? What the hell could I even do for him, anyway, that he can’t figure out himself?”

“Do we want to know?” Sam asked, and Bobby rolled his eyes.

The rest of their time with Bobby was spent either working on cars for him or just…relaxing. Bobby had a few more books for Sam’s collection which he handed over when they left, turning the car back towards their home. Their permanent, not-four-wheeled home, where they’d have to deal with a lot of questions.

“Read something.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Dean just tossed him a glance from the driver’s seat. “Something, anything. Read one of the books Bobby just gave you. I don’t care. Read something. Help keep me awake.”

It had nothing to do with Dean needing to stay awake, but Sam wasn’t going to call him out on it. He grabbed one of the books and turned to a random page. “Okay, so get this. According to folklore, there are actually three types of vampires. The first one…”

Dean settled in and smiled, and Sam just kept talking.


End file.
